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OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 



OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 

AND OTHER STORIES OF THE 

BRIGHT AGES 


BY 

REV. DAVID BEARNE, S.J, 

AUTHOR OF “ MELOR OF THE SILVER HAND,” “ CHARLIE CHITTYWICK,” 
“the witch OF RIDINGDALE,” ETC. 


•» f 
•9 > » 

> > » 

NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

PRINTERS TO THE PUBLISHERS OF 

HOLY APOSTOLIC SEE BENZIGER’S MAGAZINE 

1910 


COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY BENZIGER BROTHERS 


• «*. 

r > 

' # • 


©GI,A273435 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Our Lady’s Lutenist 7 

Led by the Spirit 58 

St. Sabine and Totila 77 

In THE Calefactory 80 

Herman the Passionate 82 

An Oxford Scholar 91 

A Monastic Fig-Tree 97 

Titian 105 

St. Simon Stock 112 

A Christmas Dream 117 

Paschal, the Shepherd 122 

The Miller’s Son 169 



OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


1 

Far back in the Bright Ages lived an orphan 
named Gabriel. If his parents had been alive he 
would not have become a pilgrim at the age of 
twelve, for he was a home-loving boy and in no hurry 
to see more of the world than he found in the grand 
old German town in which he was born and brought 
up. But, alas, he lived when the plague was making 
such sad and sudden havoc throughout Europe. On 
one and the same day his father and mother were car- 
ried off, as well as the good priest who had min- 
istered to them. By profession his father was a 
minstrel, but latterly he had been a repairer, and 
now and then a maker of lutes. 

^^Fly while you are strong and well, little man,” 
was the advice given to him by the neighbours; and 
when he had prayed over the grave of his dead 
parents he fled. 

His first care was to put a great distance between 
himself and the plague-stricken city of his birth. 

7 


8 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


He had been advised to make for the open country 
which lay between the city and the great pine forest 
where he hoped to get work. So for several 
days he walked on, stopping only for short intervals 
of rest, and sleeping at night under the star-strewn 
heavens. 

The neighbours had given him a good supply of 
food and some money, so that for the first six days 
he had no need to beg. But on the seventh day at 
eventide he found himself in a wild and woody 
place, without money and without food. 

For the first time in the course of his pilgrimage 
he felt utterly lonely. Disconsolately enough he 
wandered on, straining his eyes for the sight of some 
human habitation ; but, as far as he could see, there 
was not so much as a charcoal-burner’s hovel. 

Suddenly to his intense astonishment he heard the 
tinkling of a bell. ‘‘Without doubt it is the evening 
Angelus,” he said to himself, and kneeling in the 
roadway he devoutly recited his Aves, Greatly 
cheered, he rose from his knees and heartily com- 
mending himself to his Guardian Angel and to St. 
Gabriel, his patron, he pushed his way into the wood- 
land from which the sound of the bell had seemed to 
come. He had not gone very far before he saw the 
venerable figure of a hermit walking slowly under 
the trees, saying his beads. Gabriel stood still. 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


9 

threw the hood back from his head, and waited until 
the old man came up to him. 

^‘Holy father!” exclaimed the boy, throwing him- 
self on his knees, “please to give me your blessing.” 

The hermit blessed him, and then asked whither he 
was bound. Gabriel said that he was making his 
way to the big pine forest. 

“My poor child,” exclaimed the old man, “you 
are a whole day’s journey from the forest. More- 
over, you are many miles from any village. Two or 
three leagues to the left is the Monastery of St. Bene- 
dict, but the way is rough and difficult and in the 
gathering darkness you would never find it. You 
are already very weary and hungry, are you not?” 

Gabriel admitted his weariness and hunger. 

“Well, my child, not far from my hermitage, 
which is behind that clump of trees, there is a little 
hut in which I sometimes lodge stray travellers. 
Come with me. I will light the lamp and then I 
will bring you some supper.” 

The little hut seemed to the weary boy delight- 
fully snug and cosey, though in reality it was very 
bare; yet compared with the hermit’s own lodging 
it was comfortable enough. Its hanging lamp shed 
light upon a most inviting looking bed, upon a chair 
and table, a basin and a ewer, a prayer-desk and a 
big crucifix. 


TO 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


“Sit down, my child,” said the hermit, who had 
just trimmed the lamp; and almost before Gabriel 
realised what was happening the old man had filled 
the big basin with water and was removing the boy’s 
sabots in order to wash his feet 

“O, please, holy father, allow me to do that,” pro- 
tested Gabriel; but the old man did not notice the 
protest except to say: “Do not put on your sabots 
until I have brought some ointment Your little feet 
are sadly bruised and blistered. They must be well 
wrapped in linen before you venture to walk again.” 

When the hermit had departed to prepare the sup- 
per, Gabriel knelt before the crucifix and devoutly 
kissed it Then he cried a little for sheer joy and 
thankfulness. Soon the old man returned bearing 
a bowl of milk, a loaf of bread, and one of the little 
cheeses of the country. From the folds of his habit 
he took a box of ointment and some soft linen cloths. 
Soon the boy’s smarting feet were anointed with the 
cool ointment and carefully wrapped in the clean 
linen. 

“I ofifer holy Mass before daybreak,” said the 
hermit as he was leaving the hut. “If, my child, 
you hear the bell, by all means come to my oratory 
and serve at the altar. But I have permission to 
say Mass without an acolyte, so that I shall not dis- 
turb you if the dawn finds you sleeping.” 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


II 


Then blessing his young guest and commending 
him to our Lady and the angels, the hermit took his 
departure. 

How it came about that on the following morning 
sleep held the holy old man for several hours be- 
yond his usual hour for rising, I cannot say: I can 
only suggest that his angel and the angel of the boy 
must have arranged the matter between them. But 
the boy awoke at the sound of the Angelus, and was 
in the oratory before the hermit was fully vested for 
Mass. 

It was the longest Mass at which Gabriel had ever 
assisted ; yet so sweet withal that he felt no weariness 
and was almost sorry when it ended. He did not 
know it, of course; but the saintly priest had an 
ecstasy at the sacring. And during his thanksgiving 
he had a revelation. 

As Gabriel left the oratory to return to his hut, 
leaving the hermit to his prayers, a Brother from the 
neighbouring monastery came in sight. He was car- 
rying a pitcher of milk and a basket of provisions. 
Gabriel explained his presence to the Brother and 
was soon seated in the hut making a delicious break- 
fast of bread and milk and fruit. 

The Brother explained that he came every morn- 
ing with a supply of food for the holy man, and for 


12 OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 

any guest or pilgrim who might wander to so lonely 
a spot. 

‘^And of course people do find him out,” said the 
Brother, “for he is one of the holiest members of our 
community. Years ago he obtained permission to 
lead the eremitical life. He was always a holy 
man, but now he can read your heart and tell you 
things that it is good for you to know. If he gives 
you any advice be sure you follow it, for God and 
His angels tell him of things that are going to hap- 
pen, or that are happening at a distance.” 

The Brother left Gabriel at his breakfast and went 
on to the hermitage. 

After breakfast, not liking to depart without see- 
ing the man of God, yet loath to disturb him in his 
oratory, Gabriel made the hut as tidy as he could, 
and then knelt down before the crucifix to say his 
Rosary. He was rising from his knees when the 
hermit entered and bade him, “Good morning.” 

“My son,” he began, “last night I did not trouble 
you with many questions, nor need I do so now. But 
it has been revealed to me that you have never lost 
your baptismal innocence, and that you are very dear 
to God. Your dead father was a lute-player, was he 
not? And you yourself, my child, have some knowl- 
edge of the art.” 

Greatly astonished Gabriel assented. 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


13 


‘‘But you lack a lute, and so you are unable to make 
the music that would help you to earn your living. 
Now, my child, I have in my cell an instrument of 
some worth, and one that was given to me by a young 
man who is now a monk in the monastery on yonder 
hill. But long before he became a monk he con- 
secrated his lute to our Blessed Lady. It can only 
be used in praise of God, our Lady, and the saints. 
His desire was that it should be given only to the 
musician who was pure of heart, and who would 
take care to use it only as an accompaniment to holy 
antiphons and hymns. For years I have been wait- 
ing to bestow the instrument according to his in- 
structions : you, my child, are the chosen recipient of 
the gift.” 

Marvelling much but rejoicing more, Gabriel fol- 
lowed the hermit to his cell. 

It was indeed a magnificent instrument that the 
holy man uncovered and handed to Gabriel. 

“Go now into the oratory,” said the hermit. “Tune 
your lute before the altar of God, and then sing to 
it, O Gloriosa Virginum/^ 

With trembling fingers Gabriel touched the 
strings and began to tune them. The tone of the in- 
strument was wonderfully rich and full and sweet. 
Then he began to sing the hymn from our Lady’s 
office of Lauds. The hermit knelt in prayer. 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


14 

When they had left the oratory the holy man said : 

“Now for a year and a day you must go through 
every village and town and city singing the praises 
of Christ and His Blessed Mother; then you will re- 
turn to me. It may be that if you use this lute to 
His glory, God will use you as an instrument in 
His holy service. Through your ministry of holy 
song He may speak to many hearts. Some people 
will laugh at you and mock you: some will listen 
gladly and be kind to you for the love of God. It 
may be that through you some will forsake all things 
and serve God in holy religion.” 

II 

The Princess was so sad that she refused to be 
comforted. Now the real reason why she refused 
to be comforted was this : she was so rich that there 
was not a single thing in any shop in the land that 
she could not buy, if she cared to buy it. Indeed 
if you had seen the interior of the castle in which 
she lived, and the suite of rooms she occupied, you 
would have thought that there was nothing left in 
any of the shops that could be worth the buying. 
She possessed everything she had ever desired: no 
wonder she was so unhappy! 

For of course when I say she had everything that 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


\ 


15 

she could desire, I mean everything that can be had 
for money. But then, as we all know, the things 
best worth having are just those that cannot be bought 
with gold and silver. There is no shop in this world 
in which you can buy a cheerful disposition, or a 
merry heart, or a clear conscience, or a sense of 
humour, or a contented spirit, or a faculty for mak- 
ing true poetry, or any of the little golden keys that 
will open up to you a true understanding of the 
beauties of nature and the wonders of grace. These 
are the gifts of the good God. 

Now the Princess thought she was unhappy simply 
because, though she had had all the best singers and 
musicians of the land at her Court, not one of them 
could play or sing the melody she wanted to hear. 
The minstrels themselves were in despair: indeed 
she had banished them from the palace. Embassies 
were even now in foreign countries trying to pick 
up lutenists and choristers who might perchance be 
able to produce the music for which her royal high- 
ness’s soul longed and pined. 

Of course if she could have described the music 
she loved, even if she could have hummed a little of 
it, the minstrels of her country would have produced 
it; but unfortunately she could not describe anything 
very accurately; she could not even recall a frag- 


i6 OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 

ment of the melody she had once heard — a strain 
that had left in her soul such a longing that, until it 
could be satisfied, she knew that she would never be 
happy. 

She had heard it early one summer’s morning as 
she lay in bed, and it had entranced her. But in- 
stead of rising promptly, or of making some enquiry 
as to the person and locality of the minstrel, she had 
lain on in bed until her usual late hour of rising, 
thinking that it would be the easiest thing in the 
world to discover the musician and to have the 
melody repeated. But though pages, grooms, and 
stable-boys were sent to search the country in every 
direction, and though they questioned every man and 
woman they met, no information could be obtained 
concerning the wandering minstrel. 

The Princess could not be sure if the voice had 
been that of a woman or a boy. She was not cer- 
tain if the music was that of a ballad, a madrigal, or 
a hymn. She was quite certain that the instrument 
with which it was accompanied was a lute. 

Meanwhile the question was becoming an inter- 
national one, and the King and Queen, who had 
thoroughly spoiled their daughter in her childhood, 
were engaged all day long in writing and receiving 
despatches, in interviewing foreign troubadours and 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


17 

minstrels, and in whatever time they had left over, 
in trying to console the Princess. 

By dint of constant fretting the Princess became 
really ill. The Court doctors tried every remedy 
they could think of, but not one of them had the 
slightest effect upon the health of the Princess. 
Daily she grew paler and thinner and more dis- 
pirited. 

Now in Courts, as in other places, croakers are 
always found, and one of these — she had been one 
of the many nurses of the Princess — whispered to a 
lady of the palace that without doubt the voice her 
royal highness had heard in the dawn of the morning 
belonged to no earthly mortal, but that it had come 
from heaven to warn the girl of her approaching 
death. The Court lady was much impressed by this 
theory and, though she had promised not to repeat 
it to a single soul, in less than an hour it had reached 
the ear of the Princess herself. So the Princess im- 
mediately asked to see the Court chaplain who was 
her confessor; but though he heard her confession 
he was not willing to give her the last sacraments 
until she had seen a certain holy old monk who was 
known to have the gift of prophecy, if not that of 
healing. 


i8 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


Accordingly Father Jerome was sent for, and the 
entire Court awaited his judgment with the greatest 
possible anxiety. He was known to be as fearless as 
he was holy, and without doubt if he knew that the 
Princess was going to die he would not hesitate to 
say so. Like St. Francis of Paula in the case of 
Louis XI, Father Jerome would not mince matters. 

What he said to the Princess has not been recorded, 
but it is certain that he did not give her the last 
sacraments. To the King and Queen he spoke thus: 

‘‘Your daughter is very sick indeed, and of a highly 
dangerous disease. It is called self-love. There is 
no cure for it in the pharmacy. No doctor of medi- 
cine can ever give her the slightest relief. Yet if she 
does not get relief she will die. There is not the 
smallest reason why she should die. The action of 
her own will can effect a cure. But then sloth and 
self-indulgence have weakened her will to such an 
extent that she finds it almost impossible to exercise 
it. I will go back to my cell and pray to God for 
her. It is all that I can do.” 

That same night after the choir-office was over, in- 
stead of going back to his cell to take repose Father 
Jerome remained in his stall praying for the Prin- 
cess. The great bell of the abbey tolled three, four, 
and five, and still the old monk prayed. He had 
been in the choir since midnight. Dawn was break- 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


19 

ing, and in a little while the monks would return to 
sing the office of Prime. 

Father Jerome rose from his knees and passed out 
of the church into the cloister. Fearing that drowsi- 
ness would soon overtake him, he went out into the 
cloister-garth to meet the morning and to drink in 
the fresh pure air. Dipping his hands and face into 
the cool water of the fountain, he was about to re- 
turn to the cloister when his ear was suddenly ar- 
rested by the sound of singing. The voice was high 
and clear and wonderfully sweet: the lute that ac- 
companied it was tuneful and mellow. No boy who 
came to the abbey school had a voice like this. Father 
Jerome told himself. 

It was a holiday, the monk reminded himself: per- 
haps the boy was coming to Mass; for the rest of the 
day he would be free. Was it possible that the 
music of this young minstrel could rouse the Prin- 
cess? Nay, was there not at least the chance that 
the voice she longed for was even now to be heard? 
Was it not possible that this minstrel had rambled 
through the royal park in the early morning, sing- 
ing his brightest and best because he thought he had 
all the world to himself? 

The monk’s first impulse was to wait for the boy 
and question him; but the holy man went straight 
to the sacristy and gave some instructions to the 


20 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


sacristan: he- would see the minstrel after Mass. 

Father Jerome had heard of the holy hermit of the 
forest, and fully understood the boy’s mission. 
When Gabriel was questioned he replied very simply 
that on the feast of the Nativity of St. John the 
Baptist, after hearing a very early Mass in the abbey 
church, he had strolled in the direction of the royal 
castle, and as no one was in sight he had sung Ut 
queant laxis resonar e fibris as he passed the towers. 

“Then, my child,” said Father Jerome, “you and 
I must make our way to the castle forthwith. 
Doubtless yours was the melody the Princess heard; 
to hear it again may be the means of curing her 
distemper.” 

“But, holy father!” exclaimed the boy looking at 
his weather-stained doublet of green duffel and his 
wooden shoes, “in such clothes as these how can I 
possibly see a Princess?” 

“Have no fear, my son: bring your lute and come 
with me. And as we pass through the meadows try 
to recall every word and note of the Ut queant laxis** 

The Princess was not told that the minstrel had 
arrived. She lay on her gilded bed hung with em- 
broidered satin, and all her ladies were about her. 
Some one had taken care that all the windows of the 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


21 


vast room should be wide open. . . . From the 

terrace below there came the sound of a lute. Then 
a voice as fresh as the August morning itself was 
raised in sacred song. 

Scarcely had the first line been sung when the 
Princess sprang up in bed. ''Ah!'' she exclaimed, 
as her tears began to flow, ^‘at last!” 

Breathlessly she listened until the boy sang Amen. 
Then she sprang from her bed and, to the consterna- 
tion of her women, begged to be clothed. An hour 
later she left her room and sent for Father Jerome 
and the minstrel. When the monk was shown into 
the withdrawing-room of the castle he was alone. 

“But, father!” she said excitedly, “where is the 
singer? I must see him and reward him. Tell me 
who he is! It is impossible that he should be a wan- 
dering minstrel. I suppose he is but a boy, but he 
must be noble. If he is not, the King my father must 
ennoble him.” 

“Madam,” returned the monk, quietly but sternly, 
“neither your Highness nor his Majesty can make 
the child more noble than the grace of God has made 
him. He is a wandering minstrel — but he sings his 
hymns in honour of God and the saints.” 

“Let him be shown in at once,” said the Princess 
to her pages. 


22 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


“Wait!” commanded Father Jerome. “The boy 
is in my care, madam, and I can only permit your 
highness to see him on certain conditions.” 

“What are they?” she demanded quickly. 

“That you receive him as a guest ; that you wash 
his feet; that you serve him at table.” 

“Really, Father Jerome!” The Princess flushed 
hotly. “Surely you forget yourself! Certainly you 
forget to whom you are speaking.” 

“I am speaking to a royal maiden who is sick with 
self-love,” calmly replied the holy man. “I am ad- 
dressing a Princess who is at once proud and self- 
willed, and who would fain save her soul without 
doing one single act of penance. Neither you nor 
any other royal personage can gain heaven on such 
terms. Moreover, unless you perform the penance 
I impose upon you, you shall not see the boy, nor 
shall you ever hear his voice again.” 

“You are very hard, father,” she cried, bursting 
into tears. 

“Your highness is under the dominion of a much 
harder master than I,” was the answer, “and nothing 
but a big act of humiliation will ever rid you of 
him.” 

“I will do it,” she said after a pause. 

When Gabriel was ushered into the room by two 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


23 


pages clad in crimson and gold, his rustic dress did 
not gain by the contrast. The Princess threw up 
her hands in despair. The boy pages eyed him with 
disdain. Trembling violently, he advanced to the 
chair of state in which the Princess was sitting, and 
knelt down. She gave him her hand to kiss, and 
then turned to Father Jerome. 

‘‘You now change places, madam,” said the monk. 
“It is your highness’s turn to kneel.” 

The Princess rose, and Father Jerome motioned 
the boy into her chair. 

“Your highness may now remove his sabots and 
his leathern hose. The water will be here by the 
time you are ready for it. Then you may dismiss 
your pages.” 

The Princess shuddered as she removed the lad’s 
heavy shoon ; but to her astonishment she found that 
his feet were clean and white as her own. Mean- 
while had arrived a great silver basin full of warm 
and perfumed water. The pages withdrew and the 
washing proceeded in silence. When the Princess 
had dried the boy’s feet with a towel she kissed 
them. When she had done so a tear lay on each 
white instep. 

The Princess rose from her knees a changed 
woman. She had made clean her own heart. She 
was cured, body and soul. 


24 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


But if she had found the task a hard one, it was 
harder still for the boy to submit to Father Jerome’s 
command. To Gabriel the incident was very 
humiliating. Happily, when the Princess had led 
him to the hall and placed before him various 
kinds of delicious food — partly in pity for her and 
partly for the boy. Father Jerome dismissed her. 

When Gabriel and the monk were on their way 
back to the Abbey the latter said : 

^‘And now, my child, I charge you very solemnly 
that never, so long as you live, do you mention to 
any living creature the smallest detail of the penance 
of the Princess.” 

‘‘Father, I should die of shame if it were known 
that she had washed my feet,” said Gabriel quickly. 

“That is well, my son. But you may tell the 
holy hermit that you were taken to Court by me, that 
you sang for the Princess, and that you were treated 
with kindness. Not a word more.” 

“Not a word, my father.” 

Gabriel took the road to Frankfort, singing as he 
went. 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


25 


III 

In coming to a new neighbourhood Gabriel’s 
first care was to find some abbey or priory and, after 
presenting the parchment given to him by the her- 
mit, beg a lodging for the night. Happily, in those 
days religious houses were found everywhere, and 
the poorest pilgrim could always be sure of a 
hospitable welcome, of sufficient food, and of a 
comfortable bed. 

Gabriel was not without hope that he would be 
able to earn money enough to provide himself with 
food, and even to make an offering of alms at the 
various priories he wished to sleep at; but he soon 
found that, though the Fathers and Brothers were 
always willing to give him of their best, they were by 
no means to be persuaded to accept his alms. 

So in the little leathern pouch he carried at his 
belt the coins would sometimes accumulate until they 
became heavy. Then would he quickly lighten his 
load by giving alms to the beggars he met in the 
street, or to the poor who sometimes stood in the 
church porches: failing these, he would cast his 
silver and copper pieces into the iron-bound chest 
of the church in which he heard Mass. For though 
he never asked for money, and would quickly move 


26 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


away from any house before which he had played 
and sung, his voice was so pleasing, the lute was so 
melodious, and in the whole aspect of the young 
minstrel there was such an air of innocence and 
gravity, that few or none heard him unmoved, or 
without bestowing upon him some little gift in 
money or in kind. 

From his earliest childhood he had been accus- 
tomed to hear a part of the Church’s Office sung 
daily, and his memory was almost as well stored with 
liturgical hymns and antiphons as if he had been a 
Benedictine novice. Some he had learned by hear- 
ing them sung over and over again in church ; some 
his good mother had taught him to sing at home; 
some he had heard his minstrel father chant to the 
accompaniment of the lute. 

For in those far-off times when books were scarce, 
the Holy Memory, as it was called, was cultivated 
to an extent which we find difficult to realise, and 
though it is possible that Gabriel did not know every 
hymn in the Divine Office, it is certain that he had 
by heart a very large number of them. 

In days when business was conducted in a very 
leisurely manner, and men were not hurried either 
in their prayer or in their labour, both in shops and 
private houses Gabriel found plenty of listeners to 
his sacred song. Masters and mistresses, sons and 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


27 

daughters, servants and apprentices, would crowd to 
the open door or window and listen attentively to 
the old Latin hymns of peace and love. 

Kind-hearted mothers and fathers would often 
hold speech with the sweet-voiced lad, who an- 
swered all their questions modestly and truthfully, 
and whose air of candour and innocence caused 
them to regard him with respectful reverence. 
Sometimes they would try to detain him for a meal; 
often they would offer him a bed for the night; but 
these attentions he always declined gracefully. 

On a certain day when he was in the streets of 
Frankfort, and as he was turning away from a house 
the mistress of which had earnestly begged him to en- 
ter, a priest met him and said : “I think, my child, you 
would be doing an act of charity if you would carry 
your lute into this house. Probably the poor mother 
did not tell you why she so earnestly wished you to 
visit her. The truth is, she has a son, a boy a little 
older than yourself, who is so strange in his be- 
haviour that his parents believe him to be possessed 
of the devil. I myself do not think this: indeed it 
seems to me to be a case of evil temper which may 
develop into madness. Strange to say, while every 
kind of loud music — such as the blowing of horns 
and trumpets, or the beating of drums — rouses him 
to a kind of frenzy, the strains of a mellow lute and 


28 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


the sound of a human voice always soothe and pacify 
him. Do not be afraid that the lad will harm you; 
indeed he cannot, for the doctor has had him strongly 
fettered.” 

Trembling a little, and feeling very sad that one 
so young should be in such evil plight, Gabriel en- 
tered the house with the priest and was shown into 
a room where a strong-looking, handsome lad was 
lying fully dressed on a low couch to which he was 
secured by an iron belt and chain. His hands were 
free, but on his legs were locked a pair of iron 
shackles. 

Savagely the boy glared as his mother entered the 
room, and then turned his face to the wall. He had 
not seen Gabriel, who was just behind her. Gabriel 
touched his lute to see if it were in tune, wondering 
what it might be best for him to sing in such sad 
circumstances. Trying to steady his voice, he be- 
gan very softly the hymn so many people always 
begged him to sing: 

Ave Maris Stella, 

Dei Mater alma. 

Not daring to fix his eyes on the fettered lad, 
Gabriel was startled to hear a sudden clank of the 
irons, and looking round saw the prisoner had 
sprung to a sitting posture and was listening atten- 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 29 

lively to the hymn. Already there was some slight 
change in the poor lad’s expression, and as Gabriel 
reached the verse 


Solve vincla reis 

there came a sound of weeping. Gabriel finished 
the hymn and then continued to touch his lute very 
lightly. The suffering lad was still sobbing. 
Silently his mother left the chamber. Gabriel be- 
gan to sing: 

Praeclara custos Virginum, 

Intacta mater Numinis, 

Coelestis aulae janua, 

Spes nostra, coeli gaudium. 

When the singer had finished the last verse of the 
hymn he ventured to look towards the bed. To his 
astonishment the lad was lying on his right side; his 
eyes were closed, one hand was stretched over his 
head, and his regular breathing seemed to betoken 
a quiet sleep. Scarcely knowing whether to be glad 
or sorry, Gabriel stepped gently out of the room. 

“Thank God! O thank God!” exclaimed the lad’s 
mother when Gabriel told her that her son appeared 
to be asleep. “Nothing could be better than that. 
It is sleep my poor Andrew is so much in need of. 
If your music has only made him cry and then 
slumber it has done him and all of us a great 


30 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


service. You are not leaving the town immediately, 
I hope? O, my dear child, do come and sing to my 
afflicted lad again.” 

Gabriel replied that it had been his intention to 
leave Frankfort early on the following morning, but 
that in the circumstances he would put off his de- 
parture for a day. The merchant’s wife expressed 
her delight and thankfulness, and insisted upon 
dropping into the minstrel’s pouch a big gold piece. 
This coin Gabriel promptly handed to the friars 
with whom he was lodging, begging them to offer 
Masses for the cure of Andrew. 

On the following morning soon after the principal 
Mass in the friary church Gabriel appeared at the 
merchant’s door. 

‘‘Last night Andrew slept for many hours, and 
this morning he is so quiet that I begged the doctor 
to unchain him,” said the good woman. “But the 
doctor would not listen to me. He says the par- 
oxysms are sure to return, and that if the lad is free 
he is likely to do himself, or somebody, an injury. 
And to be sure it is only two days ago that he nearly 
throttled his young brother when the child offered 
to kiss him.” 

When Gabriel was taken to Andrew’s chamber 
he found the sufferer turning over the leaves of 
a Book of Hours. Though he did not smile as 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


31 


Gabriel bade him good morning, a look of satisfac- 
tion flitted across his face and he said in a low tone: 
“Well, I’m glad you’ve come. But don’t stand so 
far off! I won’t hurt you. This chain is a very 
strong one; I couldn’t break it if- 1 tried. I have 
been trying to find that second hymn you sang yes- 
terday but I cannot.” 

Gabriel went up to the bed, took the Book of 
Hours and soon found the Prceclara custos virginum. 
“Would you like me to sing it again?” he asked. 

“Yes, very much. Indeed, I would like you to 
sing all the hymns to our Lady you have ever 
learned.” 

“That would be to weary you, I am afraid,” smiled 
Gabriel. 

“No, no, it would not,” said Andrew impulsively. 
“You see — but no matter. I pray you sing, Master 
Minstrel.” 

Andrew kept his finger on the page of the book, 
following every line and every word of the hymn as 
Gabriel sang it. 

“You understand it, I think, don’t you?” asked 
Gabriel when he had finished. 

“Yes, very well. I was taught Latin at the Bene- 
dictine school here. We used to talk Latin there, 
you know. You’d hardly think it to look at me in 
these irons, but I was one of the pages of our Lady, 


32 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


and used to sing in the choir at the Lady Mass.” 

Gabriel felt that the tears were coming into his 
eyes: he did not know what to say. But Andrew 
went on talking. 

‘‘No, I wasn’t always a bad lad, I assure you. 
It’s only lately I’ve been so wicked. They think 
I’m mad, but ... let me whisper . . . 

I’m not really. I’m only pretending. It’s very 
wicked of me, I know, but somehow I don’t seem 
able to help it. I was always a bad-tempered fel- 
low, and one or two lads used to tease me in order 
to laugh at me when I got into a passion. They did 
it once too often and I flew at one of them and nearly 
killed him. Then I was afraid I should be put in 
prison, so I began to pretend that I wasn’t in my 
right mind; this is why the leech had me chained. 
So you see I might almost as well be in prison.” 

“Don’t you ever get out of this chamber?” asked 
Gabriel compassionately. 

“O yes, I go out into the garden behind, several 
times a day, but then they always manacle me to a 
servant lad ; and besides it’s hard work walking with 
irons like these on your ankles. However, it’s nice 
to get rid of this belt for half an hour or so.” 

“I’m so sorry for you,” said Gabriel sympathetic- 
ally. “Don’t they allow you ever to go to church?” 

“No, never: the leech thinks it isn’t safe unless I 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


33 

go in irons, and my mother won’t hear of that. It 
is over two months since I’ve been to church. My 
father had to go away on a long business journey to 
Italy just before I injured that youth, and he will 
return very soon.” 

‘‘But the priest comes to see you, doesn’t he?” 

“Yes, but then with him I have to keep up the 
pretence of being mad — though I sometimes think 
he fancies I am shamming.” 

Gabriel was greatly puzzled what to say or do. 
Andrew was his senior by two years, and though he 
longed to help the unfortunate lad he felt too young 
and inexperienced to exhort him, or to give advice. 
At length he said falteringly: 

“But I’m sure, Andrew, you don’t want to go on 
shamming and being naughty. Why won’t you see 
the priest and make a good confession?” 

“I can’t,” moaned the poor lad. “You are good 
— yes, you are, I know you are, and it’s so easy to go 
to confession when you’ve little or nothing to con* 
fess. You don’t know, you can’t imagine how hard 
it is for me.” 

Gabriel was silent for a moment and then said: 
“Yes, I’m sure it’s hard for you; but then, An- 
drew, if you put it off it will get ever so much 
harder.” 

“I know, I know, and yet I can’t bear the idea of 


34 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


confessing. . . . And there is another thing that 

troubles me,” he went on after a pause, and lowering 
his voice to a whisper; ‘‘I’m afraid that if I go on 
shamming madness much longer I shall really lose 
my reason. You don’t know how awful it is to 
feel yourself chained up like a savage dog or a wild 
bull, though of course it’s my own fault. But if I 
really went mad they would be obliged to take 
me to Bedlam, and then I should have to wear irons 
all my life. . . . My head gets so hot some- 

times I don’t know what to do : then it aches and I 
can’t sleep. And if I fall asleep I have frightening 
dreams ; if I move my body the noise of the chains 
wakes me up.” 

“I am so very sorry for you,” said Gabriel gently; 
“but I am sure you would soon feel better if only 
you would make your confession. Do let me go and 
get a priest — now.” 

“No, no!” cried Andrew. “Don’t. It is of no 
use. I really could not confess that I had been 
shamming all this time.” 

“But think of your mother, Andrew. I don’t be- 
lieve you know how terribly distressed she is. How 
sad it would be for you if she became ill!” 

Andrew turned away his face and wept. 

“Then your father will be coming home soon,” 
continued Gabriel. “What will he say if he finds 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


35 

you lying here in this state? Think how sorrowful 
he will be!” 

For some time Andrew was silent; and then he 
suddenly turned his face to the speaker and said: 

“Gabriel, I have just thought of something. I 
remember a boy at school who stole some money; I 
saw him take it and I made him put it back. Up 
to that he had been very good, but now, though he 
did not continue to steal things, he became very reck- 
less. He would not go to confession: he said the 
shame of telling his theft to the priest was more than 
he could bear, because his confessor had such a very 
good opinion of him. If only somebody else would 
tell the priest first, he said, he would go to confession. 
I thought that wouldn’t do; I told him every sinner 
had to confess his own sins; but he begged so hard 
that I would tell his confessor what he had done — 
promising to go to confession immediately after me, 
and then to tell the priest that he accused himself of 
the sin he had asked me to mention — that I could not 
refuse. Well, it turned out to be all right: in fact, 
that boy is now a Benedictine novice. . . . 

Gabriel! I wonder if you would do the same for 
me?” 

“Of course I will!” exclaimed the young minstrel: 
“I will go to the priest this very moment . . . 

on one condition.” 


36 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


^‘And what is that?” Andrew inquired anxiously. 

^‘That I may bring him here as soon as possible, 
and that you will at once make your confession to 
him.” 

For a long minute Andrew silently buried his face 
in his hands. Suddenly looking up he whispered, 
“Yes, Gabriel: I will.” 

Some four or five hours later, Andrew’s mother 
and the doctor were in consultation. They had just 
left the room in which the boy was still confined, but 
so completely changed in manner and speech and 
general appearance that as they passed into the 
parlour they both exclaimed simultaneously: “Well, 
this is indeed a miracle!” 

“A miracle of the first order,” added the leech. 

“And brought about by music,” suggested An- 
drew’s mother. 

“Certainly the singing of that young minstrel be- 
gan it.” 

“My Andrew is not like the same boy,” murmured 
the mother. “You heard what he said, doctor? He 
is willing to walk to the church in his irons if only 
he may hear Mass and go to communion.” 

“I will return in a few hours’ time,” said the doc- 
tor. “If he is then as quiet and gentle as he is now, 
his chains may certainly be removed.” 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


37 


‘^To-morrow his father returns: O, how happy we 
all shall be if my son is really restored to health of 
mind!” exclaimed the mother. 

On the following morning Andrew and Gabriel 
knelt side by side to receive the Most Holy Sacra- 
ment. 


IV 

Among the Lady Hilda’s pages there were two 
who, though both were favourites of her ladyship, 
were constantly quarrelling with each other. Both 
were well-made, handsome lads of thirteen or so, 
and both were in constant attendance upon their 
mistress. One was clad in black, the other in 
white, and though they were not brothers, but only 
first cousins, there was a certain likeness between 
them. 

It cannot be said that my lady showed the small- 
est preference for either of them. She liked them 
because they were of exactly the same height, be- 
cause they had a good appearance, and because they 
came of a family of high rank. Moreover, her lady- 
ship was a dressy sort of person and inclined to 
smartness. If that hideously vulgar term, “up-to- 
date,” had been invented at this time, she was just 
the sort of person who would have adopted it, for her 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


38 

intellectual powers were very inferior and in most 
things, except dress, her taste was execrable. 

Masters Black and White, as we may call them — 
the other pages had nicknamed them Nigger and 
Miller — were of course too much afraid of their 
rather short-tempered mistress ever to quarrel in her 
presence; but I am sorry to say that when they were 
off duty, if they were not calling each other names 
or jeering at each other, they were likely to be en- 
gaged in a pitched battle. Of course they were care- 
ful to remove their fine cloaks and tunics before 
they fought, for silk and velvet and gold lace are 
easily damaged in a tussle, and as they often closed 
with each other, if they had worn anything but 
trunk-hose, and shirts, their costumes would have 
been in ribbons. 

Now when the mistress of the house is foolish, her 
household discipline is likely to be very lax: it is 
certain that the discipline of the Lady Hilda’s es- 
tablishment was very lax indeed. Everybody de- 
plored it. Some of the pages themselves complained 
of it. The chaplains groaned over it. The steward 
was always saying that he could not and would not 
remain in such a place. The seneschal declared that 
some day my lady’s father, the good Sir Tristram, 
would assuredly rise from his grave and reduce the 
castle to order. 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


39 


All these good men did their best, each in his own 
department, to improve matters; but then my lady 
would never give them the smallest assistance or en- 
couragement, and when they issued a sensible order 
or laid down a necessary rule, this extremely up-to- 
date dame would laugh at them and refuse to confirm 
what they had done. 

But the person who suffered most from her lady- 
ship’s folly was the jester; for he was really a very 
wise man. He was always making haste to laugh, 
and trying to make others laugh, lest he should be 
compelled to weep. But he might as well have tried 
to bring a smile to the face of the stone statue of old 
Sir Tristram as to the lips of her ladyship. She was 
totally destitute of the sense of humour. A silly, 
vulgar, practical joke was the only thing that made 
her laugh. When one of her ladies kicked away the 
stool that somebody was about to sit upon, and with 
the usual result, my up-to-date lady would giggle for 
five minutes. 

So when the jester tried by quips and cranks, by 
wise words spoken in jest, to make her ladyship 
realise that her household affairs were by no means 
what they ought to be, he knew that he was wast- 
ing his wit and exercising his verbal ingenuity in 
vain. 

It happened one morning as some of the pages 


40 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


crossed the inner courtyard of the castle that young 
Black espied a bag of soot leaning against the but- 
tress, close to the door of the great kitchen. No 
sooner did he see it than he thought of White who, 
in the course of a fight the night before, had given 
him a black eye. 

The two lads were so well-matched that, as a rule, 
neither of them ever gained much advantage over the 
other, though they always managed to hurt each 
other. But on the previous night White had 
really succeeded in giving his antagonist a bad 
black eye. 

Up to this each boy had been careful to do noth- 
ing that would incur the displeasure of his mistress: 
each knew very well that anything like serious dam- 
age done to the expensive clothes which she pro- 
vided them would certainly excite her wrath. But 
when two people give way to the bad passion of 
anger, and make no effort to repress their hatred of 
each other, the time is sure to come when they will 
throw caution to the winds, and then the thought of 
the serious consequences of their conduct will cease 
to act upon them as a check. 

The sight of this big bag of soot enchanted Black. 
White had given him a discoloured eye, had he? 
Very well: he (Black) would give his enemy two 
really black eyes, if not indeed a black face. So 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


41 

getting behind the buttress he waited for the passing 
of White — who was close at hand. 

As a matter of fact White was standing just within 
the great kitchen, with his hand in an open sack 
of flour. He was waiting for the coming of Black. 
He had some flour for the healing, at any rate for 
the dressing of Black’s black eye. And if some 
of the flour reached his black tunic and hose — well, 
thought White, so much the better. 

Each, then, was waiting for the other. Each 
was within a few yards of the other. Neither of 
them guessed that he was so close to his enemy. 
Both were looking in the wrong direction. 

Stealthily White crept to the big open door of 
the kitchen and looked out into the courtyard; but 
Black was well behind the buttress, and could 
neither see nor be seen by White. 

Suddenly Black heard a little cough in his im- 
mediate neighbourhood. He recognised it in- 
stantly. White was on the other side of the but- 
tress! Plunging his two hands into the bag of soot, 
Black rushed round to the kitchen door. 

Figure to yourself, if you can, the scene that fol- 
lowed. At one and the same instant that soot left 
the hands of Black flour left the hands of White. 
Though half blinded by what they had thrown into 
each other’s face, each lad darted back to his re- 


42 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


spective sack for a fresh supply of ammunition. 
The fight became furious and prolonged. In a few 
minutes Black looked like a miller’s lad: White 
might well have been a young chimney-sweep. 
The battle would have lasted much longer but for 
the arrival of the cook and his scullion boys, who 
had been to the kitchen garden for the day’s vege- 
tables. Needless to say, the cook was very angry 
at the wilful waste of good flour; but the kitchen 
lads shouted with laughter. 

‘‘Man and boy, I have had to do with this kitchen 
for twenty-five years,” shouted the irate cook, “and 
never have I witnessed such a disgraceful scene. 
Just look at the disgusting mess you’ve made at my 
very door! Then go and look at yourselves! Don’t 
I wish my lady would come this way. A pretty 
couple you are to call yourselves pages. If you 
were two of my lads I’d have you both soused in 
the horse-trough yonder.” 

The young scullions had placed themselves be- 
tween the combatants in order to stop the fight: two 
of them were restraining Black, who seemed anx- 
ious to close with his antagonist, now that his am- 
munition was cut off. But nobody would touch 
White; even the kitchen lads did not care for too 
much soot: a little flour was another matter. Black 
and White now began to try to remove particles 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


43 


from their eyes, but as their hands were either floury 
or grimy, they only succeeded in increasing their 
discomfort. 

It was at this juncture that the jester skipped into 
the courtyard and began dancing round the enraged 
boys, singing as he did so: 

*‘0 White is black and Black is white, 

What d’ye lack! What d’ye lack! 

Black and White did fight and fight 
Till Black was white and White was black.” 

But he was too good-hearted to exasperate them 
further, and skipped off to find the seneschal. 

‘‘I declare,” said the seneschal, as he surveyed the 
two objects before him, “I declare that I have a 
great mind to clap you both in the stocks, just as 
you are, and make you sit there until curfew-time. 
However, I won’t anticipate the punishment my 
lady is sure to inflict upon you. Yes, you have done 
it now. You won’t get off this time; you know 
that. Why your shirts and hose were very nearly 
new : now they are ruined.” 

Still half-blind, the two pages were handed over 
to some men-at-arms, who were told to take them 
to separate towers, and to see that each had a bath 
and a change of raiment. 

“But you, young man,” said the seneschal to 
White, “you will want a regular course of baths. 


44 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


You won’t get rid of that soot in a hurry, I can tell 
you. The smell of it will hang about you for days. 
You’ll be like a walking and an unswept chimney. 
You can’t possibly go into hall for a week or two.” 

As a matter of fact both boys were suffering so 
much from inflamed eyes that after their baths they 
were put to bed, one in the gate-tower and the other 
in the great central tower. For, as the seneschal 
knew very well, they could no more live in the 
same building than two robins can live in the same 
tree. 

Quite truthfully it was reported to my lady that 
the two favourite pages were both in the hands of 
the leech, but it was hoped that in a few days they 
would both be cured of their little passing ailments. 

But though Black recovered from the effects of 
the flour it was ten days before White was allowed 
to leave his chamber. For the soot had brought 
about a serious inflammation, and even when the 
boy was permitted to go out his eyes were very red 
and sore, and he was quite unable to attend to his ordi- 
nary duties. A boy named Rufus was taking his 
place by the side of Black — ^who, it may be said, 
had received a severe scolding from his mistress, 
and a threat of condign punishment the very next 
time he was found fighting with White. 

White had really suffered very much in the en- 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


45 


counter, and he went about the castle looking moody 
and sad. In the circumstances his mistress forbore 
to scold him ; the seneschal was kind ; the jester made 
him laugh ; the forgiving cook allowed him to come 
to the kitchen and gave him many a dainty pasty and 
tart. But with wonderful ingenuity, considering 
that his sight was still imperfect, he managed to 
evade the priests of the castle-chapel. 

What if his eyes should be permanently dam- 
aged? he asked himself. What if he should never 
be able to take his former place as one of the two 
immediate attendants upon my lady? In that case, 
the boy Rufus would no doubt supplant him. 
White’s thoughts became very bitter. 

The jester saw this, for he found it increasingly 
difficult to make the boy laugh though he sang some 
of his prettiest and wittiest songs. He played 
chess with the invalid; he taught him a new dance; 
he told him stories of heroes and kings. And in 
his own quaint way he was never tired of hinting that 
boys who fought one another without cause would 
never make gallant and chivalrous knights. 

Black was rather pleased with himself. On the 
whole he felt that he had come off well. He re- 
garded himself as the victor. Rufus and he were 
getting on together very tolerably and he hoped 
that White’s absence from duty might be prolonged. 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


46 

It seemed to him that White was in fault, and al- 
ways had been. “I can’t really be a quarrelsome 
chap,” he said to himself, “if I were, I should 
quarrel with Rufus, and I don’t.” 

Now although this sounded like a good argu- 
ment, in reality it was a very bad one. White and 
Rufus were two very different people. Rufus was 
more than willing to play second fiddle to Black; 
White was not. Rufus knew that his appearance 
was nothing like so good as that of the Nigger, 
whereas the Miller had every reason for thinking 
that he was in no way inferior to his colleague. In 
fact the whole reason of the many difficulties be- 
tween Black and White was just this: neither would 
give way to the other. Each thought himself the 
superior of the other. 

During his time of convalescence — though ex- 
cept for the state of his eyes he was perfectly well — 
White very wisely avoided all intercourse with his 
brother pages. He knew how they would regard 
the flour-and-soot fight, and he was in no humour to 
be jested with on the subject. Moreover, various 
people had been so kind to him that he was minded 
to take their advice to give up fighting and to live 
peaceably as a Christian boy should. He began to 
hear a second Mass every morning, and he was some- 
times seen kneeling before the statue of Our Lady 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


47 


of Peace. He did not now avoid the chaplains: 
indeed he was glad to hear their words of sympathy 
and encouragement. 

Things were going very well indeed with the 
Miller when — alack the day! — he chanced to meet 
the Nigger in the narrow stairway of the gate-tower. 
Black was going up and White was coming down. 

“Hello!” exclaimed Black, “just look where 
you’re going, will you? Haven’t you got rid of that 
soot I put into your eyes?” 

Though the winding stairway was narrow, each 
could have passed the other if he had been so 
minded. But White stood still in the middle of the 
stone step, stung into sudden fury by Black’s taunt. 

“You can go down to the bottom and come up 
again,” said White, surveying the other with con- 
tempt. “You’re not going to push by me, I can 
tell you.” 

“If you don’t get out of my way. I’ll take hold 
of you by the legs and pitch you to the bottom,” 
exclaimed the enraged Black. 

“If you lay a finger on me. Nigger, I’ll kick you 
in the face. I won’t let you of¥ this time with one 
black eye, or with a floury head-piece.” 

From his lower step Black made a sudden grab 
at the other’s right ankle. Then the tussle began. 

After a preliminary scrimmage they closed. 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


48 

Very soon they had fallen sideways on the steps. 
Each was now trying to bang the other’s head upon 
the stone steps. So closely were they locked to- 
gether that when a man-at-arms came running up to 
see what was the matter, he could not at once separate 
them. Eventually he dragged them both to the 
bottom. The seneschal and the jester were standing 
talking in the gateway. 

‘What!” exclaimed the seneschal, as he caught 
sight of the breathless and dishevelled pair, “you 
two young savages at it again! Well, you’re in my 
territory now, and I’m hanged if I don’t make an 
example of you both.” 

The seneschal said something in a low tone to the 
jester, who immediately skipped off to my lady’s 
withdrawing room. 

“My lady,” said the jester bowing low, “in your 
ladyship’s hall there are two loose pages lying about. 
Methinks it would be well to have them bound and 
put into a place of — ^well, of safety.” 

As previously noted, the Lady Hilda was not 
gifted with humour, and it was seldom that the jester 
thought it worth his while to try his quips and pranks 
in her presence. He nearly always had to take his 
joke to pieces and to explain it in detail before she 
saw the point: even then she did not laugh. 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


49 


‘Why trouble me with such a detail, fool?” she 
asked frowningly. “Tell the Master of the Library 
to attend more carefully to his duties. Are they 
illuminated pages, by the way?” 

“No, my lady, no, not illuminated. Just black 
and white.” 

“In what characters?” she demanded. 

“Very bad characters, both of them, my lady.” 

“Can you read them, fool?” 

“Certainly, my lady. It is your ladyship’s pleas- 
ure that they be strongly bound?” 

“Have I not said so, fool?” she asked sharply. 

The jester bowed low and skipping away soon 
found the seneschal. 

“It is my lady’s command that the Nigger and 
the Miller be bound and put into a place of safety,” 
laughed the fool. 

“They shall be bound forthwith,” said the senes- 
chal. “Come and see it done.” 

What the seneschal showed the jester was this : 

In the middle of the guardroom stood two boys 
bound, back to back, with strong leathern straps. 
One broad belt of leather encircled the pair; smaller 
straps fastened Black’s wrists and ankles to White’s. 

“Now, remember, lads,” said the seneschal, “if 
you struggle you’ll tumble down ; and if you tumble 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


SO 

down it is certain that you won’t be able to get up 
again. Nor will you be able to lie comfortably on 
the floor.” 

The jester was about to suggest that as they were 
no longer loose pages they might as well be put on a 
shelf; but being both kind and wise he refrained 
from all speech. 

‘^Once again I ask you if you are willing to be 
friends,” said the seneschal, ^^and to give each other 
the accolade of peace?” 

“I’ll kill Nigger as soon as I can get at him,” 
cried White. 

“As soon as I’m unstrapped I’ll murder Miller,” 
shrieked Black. 

Sorrowfully the jester left the guardroom. 

“Very well,” said the seneschal as he moved to- 
ward the door; “then for the present I must leave 
you as you are. In an hour’s time, perhaps, you may 
each be in a different state of mind.” 

He joined the jester, who was waiting in the gate- 
way. Both men looked troubled. 

“A very bad case,” said the seneschal sadly. 
“However, I am still hopeful that after an hour’s 
penance they may be willing to make peace. It is 
a severe punishment and one that was meted out to 
me when I was a young lad. My enemy and I soon 
came to the conclusion that the way of the trans- 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


51 

gressors is a hard one. The treatment cured us 
both.” 

“May it cure them,” sighed the jester; “ ’tis a 
drastic treatment, in truth. But then kindness does 
not seem to help them — though I had great hopes of 
White.” 

“So had I,” returned the seneschal. “In fact I 
hoped the best for both of them. If only they had 
been corrected in the beginning!” 

“Ah, but that’s not my lady’s way,” said the jester, 
“I suppose you are going to see her soon?” 

“I’m going to her now, and I won’t leave her un- 
til she has promised either to send one of them 
away, or to see to it that they are kept apart. I 
don’t want to assist at the hanging of a boy: I’ve 
done it once in my life, and I assure you ’tis a very 
pitiful business.” 

“God forbid it!” exclaimed the jester. “Alas! I 
have seen it more than once — though not here. And 
in each case ’twas for murder.” 

“By the help of God,” said the seneschal sol- 
emnly, “we’ll have no boy murderers in this castle.” 

An hour later the seneschal left the Lady Hilda 
and went back to the guardroom. He had had a 
fairly satisfactory interview with her ladyship and 
had succeeded in alarming her. Indeed she was so 
shocked at the possible consequences of the deadly 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


52 

enmity between the two lads that she begged the 
seneschal to keep them in his own custody until they 
came to a better mind. If they remained obdurate 
they were to be imprisoned in the keep. 

The seneschal found both his prisoners weeping. 
He hoped that this might be a sign of grace. 

“Before I unstrap you, you promise to be friends?” 
he asked. 

Both gave the promise eagerly. 

“Very good,” said the seneschal as he began to 
unbuckle the broad belt. “But remember, I shall 
want proof of your sincerity before I let you go 
back to the castle hall. My lady is very angry with 
you and she wishes me to tell you that she will not 
have you near her again until you have become good 
friends.” 

The seneschal was removing the wrist strap. 

“For the present I shall keep you here in the 
gate-house, but when I find that you are really 
friendly with one another I shall allow you to go in 
and out to the tilting-place and to the chapel. In 
fact I shall not put you in the cells at all.” 

He was now undoing the leather that bound their 
ankles. One strap he had removed altogether, but 
though he unbuckled the second one he forgot to 
pick it up, and it was lying loosely about White’s 
left ankle and Black’s right. Delighted to feel him- 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


53 

self unbound, White kicked out his foot to free it 
from the leather — quite unconscious of the fact that 
the buckle had caught itself in another hole. The 
consequence was that Black’s leg, round which the 
strap was still hanging, was violently jerked back- 
ward and his body forward: in fact he fell heavily 
to the floor. 

Springing up again in a violent rage he made a 
sudden rush upon White — ^who, having had his back 
turned to the enemy all the time they were being un- 
bound, scarcely realised what he had done. 

“Curse you!” shrieked Black as he sprang upon 
the other, “you did that on purpose: you know you 
did. I will murder you now.” 

Certainly, as the seneschal said afterward, there 
was murder in his eye. His object seemed to be to 
dash his enemy’s head against the stone wall of the 
guardroom: for as White was quite unprepared for 
the onslaught. Black had pinned his arms to his 
side. 

But the seneschal was too quick for him; and in 
a very few minutes Black found himself in irons 
and lying in a small cell in the gate-tower. In the 
cell next to him lay White. 

Each boy quite expected to be released on the fol- 
lowing morning, but to their surprise and indigna- 
tion the seneschal informed them that for some time 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


54 

to come they must expect to be closely confined. 
He made each of them strip himself of his silks and 
velvets and put on tunic and hose of leather. As 
White had certainly not been the aggressor in the 
last quarrel, the seneschal was content to lock some 
light irons upon his legs; but upon Black he rivetted 
a complete set of fetters. 

For two long weeks the pages had lain in prison. 
Twice each day they had been taken out for exercise 
within the castle grounds, each fastened to a stable- 
boy — who was forbidden to hold any speech with 
his prisoner. It was a sad little procession that 
made its way every morning and afternoon from 
one courtyard to another, through the castle gardens, 
and back to the gate-house. 

Both the lads began to look pale and dejected, for 
the quantity of their diet had been reduced and its 
quality completely changed. The leech and the sen- 
eschal were both agreed that in the hall the pages 
were allowed too much beef and beer, and that this 
excess was a fruitful cause of quarrelling and fight- 
ing; and though a moderate quantity of meat was 
carried to the prisoners once a day, for their other 
meals they were supplied with good bread and pure 
water. 

None but the chaplain and the seneschal were 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


55 

now allowed to visit them, and though these good 
men tried their best to bring them to a better frame 
of mind, both the lads remained sulky and obdurate. 
Neither of them would make any promise of for- 
giveness, or express the smallest sorrow for what he 
had done. 

For the first week no task of any kind had been 
given them, and Black spent most of his time in 
rubbing and polishing his fetters, so that when he 
was taken out for exercise his irons shone like bur- 
nished silver. White invented a new game with 
bits of the clean straw upon which he lay. 

But at the beginning of the second week the chap- 
lain who taught them Latin gave each boy a short 
lesson to learn by heart. It was the Latin hymn 
Jam lucis orto sidere, and as neither of the boys 
could translate it for himself. Father Simon pro- 
vided them with sheets of parchment and dictated 
the lines to them in the vernacular, as well as in the 
original. 

When the priest had left him. Black threw the 
parchment aside and took no further notice of it. The 
day before had been rainy and when out for exer- 
cise his fetters had lost all their brightness. At all 
times he preferred to use his hands rather than his 
head, and to-day he intended to make his leg-irons 
shine like silver. He felt quite sure that if only he 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


S6 

had the good luck to meet my lady while he was out, 
her heart would be touched at the sight of him thus 
garnished, and that she would at once order his re- 
lease. 

White paid no attention to his shackles. Though 
he longed to be rid of them they did not hurt him 
in any way, and he was thankful that they were not 
nearly so formidable as Black’s. 

So White gave himself up to the learning of the 
hymn, and when Father Simon appeared on the fol- 
lowing morning he repeated both the Latin and the 
translation without stumbling. Black had not 
learned a word. 

“This time I shall not report you to the seneschal,” 
said Father Simon gently; “but if he asks me 
whether you have done your lesson, I shall be com- 
pelled to say no.” 

Black made no reply; but at noon-day when a 
kitchen-boy brought him bread and water, instead of 
beef and beer, he quite understood that the senes- 
chal had enquired, and that he was being punished. 

This was the condition of things when, at the end 
of his wanderings. Our Lady’s Lutenist arrived at 
the castle. 

It would take too long to relate the full history 
of Gabriel’s pilgrimage of song. He had carried 


OUR LADY’S LUTENIST 


57 

comfort and consolation to many sad hearts; by the 
singing of holy hymns he had brought peace and 
courage to the dying; in many cases he had healed 
differences and reconciled sworn enemies. Like 
another David, he had driven away the demons of 
gloom and evil temper; he had helped the young 
and the old to increase their devotion to our divine 
Lord and His blessed Mother; he had brought the 
sinner to repentance; through his instrumentality sev- 
eral boys and maidens had already left the world for 
the cloister. 

But in the details of such a history, even if the old 
chroniclers had preserved them for us, there would 
naturally be much repetition; unfortunately, the 
mediaeval historian often fails us at the most interest- 
ing point of his narrative; he does so in the story of 
Gabriel. 

So by what precise means Our Lady’s Lutenist 
won the souls of the two imprisoned pages, we can 
only conjecture. This, however, is certain: when 
Gabriel went back to the holy hermit’s hut he had 
two companions. In that same year, he and the two 
reconciled penitent page-boys took the holy habit of 
religion among the sons of St. Benedict. 

^^Occupied wholly with the opus Dei,'* says the 
chronicler, ^^the three lads grew to manhood, living 
holily, and dying happily at a ripe old age.” 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 


I 

In the grand old castle of Siilchen on the Nekar, 
Meinrad spent all the years of the first decade of his 
life. By birth he was Count of Hohenzollern. His 
father, Berthold, had married a great heiress, the 
daughter of Count Siilchen, and the castle they had 
inherited was one of the strongest in Swabia. 

Born in the year 797, when Meinrad had passed his 
tenth birthday the question of his higher education 
became a pressing one. Both from his mother and 
from the chaplain of the castle he had received much 
valuable instruction ; but with an abbey school within 
reach, and one like that of the island of Reichenau, 
a place with a great and deserved reputation both 
for holiness and learning, a community over which 
his own kinsman, Hatto of Siilchen, ruled as abbot, 
it was felt that the young count could not do better 
than spend the remaining years of his boyhood under 
the care of the monks of St. Benedict. 

So Meinrad took a tender and affectionate leave of 
58 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 


59 


his parents, and soon found himself at home in the 
school of the nobles — which was distinct from that 
in which young lads were being trained for the 
monastic life. The boy count was looking forward 
to a life of activity, a career in which he would be 
called upon to draw the sword in defence of life and 
property; for the times were turbulent ones, and his 
countrymen were slow to learn and to practise those 
principles of Christianity, the adoption of which 
must ever be the beginning of civilisation. Cen- 
turies of hunting and harrying, of raiding and fight- 
ing, had produced in the German mind a contempt 
for the arts of peace, and it was only by incredible 
exertions, by constant preaching and teaching, and, 
above all, by the example they themselves gave in 
tilling the land and tending flocks and herds, that 
very gradually the people began to appreciate some- 
thing of the dignity of labour. Little by little the 
monks of St. Benedict did for Germany what they 
had already done for so many barbarous nations. 

Closely associated with the world-famed Abbey of 
St. Gall, the beautiful monastery of Reichenau stood 
on a lovely green island close to the Lake of Con- 
stance. To this day its minster may be seen, cur- 
tained by luxuriant foliage, a monument of past 
glory, and an undying record of the genius and skill, 
as well as of the piety and devotion of the monks. 


6o 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 


The little boy Meinrad found himself in a new 
and very beautiful world. Not only was the Abbot 
Hatto related to him, but among the learned monks 
who flourished at that period was his own uncle, Erie- 
bald, who afterward succeeded to the abbacy. The 
natural beauties of the island were striking enough, 
and the boy soon discovered that life in the cloister 
school was fuller and more interesting than that of 
the castle of Siilchen. Already was Reichenau the 
home of literature, science, and art. Among the 
masters of the school were men of undoubted genius, 
monks who had acquired a sound knowledge of 
Greek and Latin, of Hebrew and Arabic. Music 
flourished in this home of virtue, and even as a boy 
of fifteen its great exponent, Walafrid Strabo, won 
for himself a world-wide reputation for scholar- 
ship. 

More illustrious still, perhaps, was Herman the 
Cripple, who seems to have become master of all 
the learning of the time, and who not only wrote 
treatises on history, poetry, ethics, astronomy, and 
mathematics, but set his own poems to music and 
constructed church organs and clocks. Many of the 
breviary hymns and antiphons are attributed to his 
pen, and among them the beautiful Alma Redemp- 
toris. Besides being crippled he had an im- 
pediment in his speech; yet so learned were his 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 


6i 


lectures that from the most distant parts students 
flocked to hear him, and he was reverenced as much 
for holiness of life as for his all but universal knowl- 
edge. 

In a school such as this, and in an abbey possessed 
of such glorious traditions, it is no wonder if the boy 
count began to apply himself to study with great 
ardour. Whatever the future of his life might be, 
he determined to use well the splendid opportunities 
of gaining knowledge that the school afforded him. 
More than that, he resolved not to neglect any of 
the means of grace so bountifully placed at the dis- 
posal of all the boys, secular as well as Religious. 

So Meinrad grew in wisdom and in stature, his 
love of learning and of the holy men who imparted 
it increasing with his years. He was in no hurry 
to run back to the life of a young noble in the world, 
and at the age of nineteen we find him a tall and 
well-grown as well as an assiduous and a docile pupil 
in the monastery school. 

It was at this time, in the year 8i6, that a great 
event occurred on the island of Reichenau. Seven- 
teen years before, a certain Bishop Egino had re- 
tired to this secluded place in order to spend his 
last days within the shadow of the abbey. Not con- 
tent with this, he had immediately begun to build 
a magnificent church in honour of our Blessed Lady. 


62 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 


In Meinrad’s nineteenth year, and while he was still 
a schoolboy, took place the great function of the con- 
secration of this domus Dei, No less than eight 
hundred monks took part in the wonderful cere- 
mony, and Meinrad found himself, one of four hun- 
dred boys, singing with all his heart Ccelestis Urbs 
Jerusalem. 


II 

The time came when Meinrad could no longer 
be numbered among the boys of the abbey school. 
One way or other, the question of his future career 
must be settled. It may be that during the progress 
of that great function he had so lately taken part in 
the voice of God spoke to him very clearly, and 
gave him an unmistakable call to the life of religion. 
At any rate, when the period of his school days was 
over, and he was free to return to the noble castle of 
Siilchen on the Nekar, he unhesitatingly offered him- 
self to the service of God. 

To all who had to deal with him it soon became 
evident that the young count was a novice of more 
than ordinary virtue. Fond of study as he was, he 
soon showed that the great business of his life was 
the pursuit of holiness. The book that held and 
fascinated him was Cassian’s Lives of the Fathers of 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 


63 

the Desert; the employment he loved best was the 
singing of the Divine Office; the task he set himself 
was the hard and difficult one of complete conquest 
of self. In 821 he was ordained deacon, and soon 
afterward he received the priesthood. In the fol- 
lowing year his great-uncle, Erlebald, became abbot, 
and Meinrad took his final vows at the age of twenty- 
five. 

The Abbey of Reichenau had another monastery 
depending upon it, that of Bollingen, which lay at 
the upper extremity of the Lake of Zurich, a wild 
and neglected neighbourhood. Here, buried among 
the mountains, lived a prior and twelve monks, who 
had come hither in order to preach to the people and 
to act as teachers to their children. Already they 
had established a school for nobles and serfs alike, 
and for this school they applied to the abbot of 
Reichenau for a master. 

Now from the first Meinrad had shown a great 
liking for solitude and for the eremitical state, and 
it may be that his uncle, the abbot, thought that life 
in the small and remote priory of Bollingen, so far 
removed from the world, and so completely shut in 
by dense forests and lofty mountains, would be en- 
tirely congenial to the tastes of this promising and 
saintly young monk. With great willingness Mein- 
rad received the order to betake himself to Bol- 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 


64 

lingen, and very soon the abbot heard with satisfac- 
tion that the prudence and modesty of his nephew 
were beyond all praise, and that he was already 
much beloved by his brethren and by the boys of 
the school. Though his chief duty was that of teach- 
ing, he soon obtained a reputation as a director of 
souls and a preacher of the Word of God. 

Yet great as was the solitude of Bollingen, Mein- 
rad could not help longing for a more perfect and 
entire withdrawal from men and things, and for a 
more secluded life. Fully realising that the call 
was an exceptional one, and that the career of a her- 
mit was one of great difficulty, he could not conceal 
from himself, or from others, the fact that even in 
the days of his noviceship he had hungered after the 
eremitical state. 

A whr’e holiday at Bollingen often meant an ex- 
pediti jor the boys, who, in charge of a master, 
would ^0 boating on the lake or fishing in one of its 
tributary streams. Meinrad never shrank from 
these outings, and often took out his pupils for walk- 
ing and fishing parties, particularly in the direction 
of a wild and beautiful spot known as “the wilder- 
ness.” 

One day, when the boys had reached a certain 
trout stream, and all were quietly and happily em- 
ployed in angling, Meinrad strolled about by him- 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 65 

self, admiring the exceeding beauty of the neigh- 
bourhood, and meditating on the many and great 
joys of that solitude of which he was enamoured. 
Hour after hour slipped by in prayer and reflection, 
and when Meinrad returned to his pupils, who had 
been unusually successful in their fishing, he pro- 
posed that they should walk to the neighbouring vil- 
lage of Altendorf for rest and refreshment. 
Arrived there, they went to the house of a holy 
woman, a widow, already known to Meinrad, and 
while the boys ate and drank, laughed and chatted, 
their master entered into spiritual conversation with 
the pious hostess. 

It may be that Meinrad had already made up his 
mind to ask the leave of his superior to begin that 
hermit life in the desolate yet beautiful neighbour- 
hood he had just been contemplating. At " rate, 
he could not but speak of his desire to tl evout 
lady who so readily ministered to the want^ of the 
boys. He could see only one difficulty in the way 
of carrying out his project, and this he modestly 
and ingenuously made known to his hostess. 

“If only someone would send me a little food, 
day by day,” he said, “then in that peaceful pine 
forest I could give myself up wholly to spiritual 
things.” 

The holy matron at once assured him that she de- 


66 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 


sired no greater privilege than that of being per- 
mitted to minister to one who wished to live so 
saintly and so profitable a life. She knew well that 
many could teach and preach and administer the 
sacraments of the Church, but that a vocation to the 
life of a solitary was a rare and a precious gift, and 
that its use would be certain to redound to the 
greater glory of God and to the sanctification of many 
souls. 

Full of joy and thanksgiving, Meinrad returned to 
Bollingen, to ask and to obtain the consent of his 
Prior, and then to bid farewell forever to com- 
munity life. Sadly and reluctantly the Prior per- 
mitted him to depart. 

It was in the month of June, in the year 828, and 
when he had turned thirty-one, that Meinrad tore 
himself away from his weeping brethren and 
scholars and set his face toward the mountain wilder- 
ness of his choice. Here his first duty was to build 
himself a little hermitage. He had brought with 
him a missal and a breviary, the Rule of St. Bene- 
dict, a book of instructions on the gospels, and the 
works of Cassian. In front of him lay the waters 
of the lake, intensely blue, and calm as a woodland 
pool. Behind him was the midnight darkness of a 
dense forest. 

Loving the Creator as he did, he could not but 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 


67 

love God’s creatures. Deep was his affection for 
the natural beauties that lay around him ; for what- 
ever penance a saint here and there may have thought 
it right to inflict upon himself in this connection, 
Meinrad felt that the more he contemplated the 
works of God, the more did his heart become fixed 
upon the perfections of the Most High. 

Finding four pine trees growing conveniently to- 
gether and forming a perfect square, the young her- 
mit determined to utilise them for his hut; collect- 
ing broken boughs of trees, he set to work to interlace 
them between the trees, which served as excellent 
corner posts, and then to roof over the little hovel 
with fern and bracken. The holy woman of 
Altendorf daily sent him a supply of food, and 
Meinrad was content. Yet, after a time, he thought 
it would be well if he retired a little further up the 
slopes of the Etzel, and a little deeper into the forest 
that clothed its side. 

And now the good widow was determined that he 
should have not only a well-built hermitage of pine 
logs, a hut that might tend to mitigate the rigours of 
the coming winter, but also a separate little oratory 
for the offering of the Holy Sacrifice. Gratefully 
did he accept these pious gifts, assuring his bene- 
factress that nothing was now wanting to his happi- 


ness. 


68 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 


Scarcely does the ocean itself impress the mind 
with a greater sense of awe than that which is ex- 
cited by the solitude of a vast forest. There are 
times, indeed, when the mystery which seems in- 
separable from a great concourse of trees impresses 
the imagination almost more than does the majesty 
of the sea. It is not one voice that reaches the ear, 
but a hundred dissimilar sounds and whisperings. 
Though its solitude is profound, the woodland is 
full of life and motion and speech. Light and 
shadow seem to become sentient things. Once the 
sun has set, the blackness of darkness may almost 
be felt. Then become audible all the strange, mys- 
terious noises that were scarcely noticed while the 
light of the day hours lasted. Thousands of birds 
are settling themselves in the branches; pine cones 
fall with a thud upon the earth; the night wind 
makes moaning music among the boughs; the cry 
of the wildcat rings through the forest; the far-off 
bowlings of wolves, perhaps the roaring of some 
mightier beasts of prey, reach the ear of the solitary. 

Truly, does such a life as this require special 
graces and a divine vocation, as well as bodily fit- 
ness and a wealth of nerve power. Meinrad was 
happy in it, and loved it, because he had not under- 
taken it as a means of gratifying a natural taste, or 
even a merely pious caprice, but because in his in- 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 69 

most soul he felt fully assured that he was called to 
it by God. Yet even when he had taken possession 
of his new Etzel hermitage, further away than ever 
from the haunts of men, he found that his solitude 
became more and more invaded. As time went on, 
his hermitage became a place of pilgrimage. 
Saints and sinners came to seek his spiritual aid, and 
he would not repulse one of them. Before all things, 
he desired to do the will of God, and to follow closely 
in the footsteps of Tesus Christ, “who pleased not 
Himself.” 

From Bollingen came his pupils and the Brothers 
from the priory. Young and old were eager to 
kneel at the holy hermit’s feet. Criminals came to 
unburden their souls; the ignorant sought to be en- 
lightened; the pious who were aiming at perfection 
desired his counsel and advice. And for seven long 
years Meinrad ministered to all who approached 
him. Yet he knew that the doing of work of this 
kind was not the final purpose for which God had 
called him into the desert. Excellent and useful as 
such ministrations were, he had been led to embrace 
the life of the solitary that he might sanctify his own 
soul, and to help by his prayers and mortifications to 
save the souls of thousands who would never see him 
in the flesh. 


70 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 


III 

Now on the other side of the Etzel there was a 
forest that, in all probability, had never been ex- 
plored by man. To this all but inaccessible solitude 
he would penetrate. Its savage aspect was frightful ; 
its loneliness was complete; its darkness was pro- 
found. Yet it had no terrors for Meinrad. It was 
the place of his choice, or rather the place to which 
he was being led by the Spirit of God. No longer 
would the holy matron of Altendorf be able to sup- 
ply him with the necessaries of life: no longer would 
the brethren and boys of Bollingen pay him their 
accustomed visits. It mattered not: this appalling 
solitude was to be the place of his rest. 

It is pleasant to think of his making a preliminary 
visit of inspection accompanied by some of his old 
pupils, now professed monks; though at a certain 
point he left them behind to fish in the river Sihl, and 
entered the forest alone. Walking in a southerly di- 
rection, in less than two hours he came to a semi- 
circular range of hills, at whose foot flowed a 
crystal stream over a bed of verdant moss. Look- 
ing for the water’s source, he found the spring be- 
neath the roots of two tall pine trees. Falling on 
his knees, he thanked God for having prepared a 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 


71 

table for him in the wilderness, and resolved that 
here should be the place of his dwelling. Drink- 
ing for the first time from the spring, he returned, 
full of joy, to his companions, who, now laden with 
fish, paid their last call at his Etzel hermitage. 

On the following day Meinrad went to Altendorf 
on a farewell visit to the pious lady who during 
those seven years had supplied him with necessaries. 
Then, accompanied by one of the Bollingen monks 
and a peasant of the neighbourhood, who helped to 
carry the books and the altar furniture, Meinrad 
set out for his new abode. As they went down the 
mountain toward the river, the monk espied a raven’s 
nest, and knowing the hermit’s love for birds — 
thinking, too, of the absolute solitude his brother- 
religious was about to endure — he climbed the tree 
and brought away two young ravens. 

A few yards above the spring whose waters he 
had already seen and tasted, Meinrad built for him- 
self a little chapel and a hut of logs. One of the 
nearest habitations was that of a small community 
of nuns, and no sooner had the Abbess Hedwig 
heard of the holy man’s arrival than she determined 
to send him regular supplies of food. Though his 
fame had now spread far and wide, his solitude was 
almost necessarily respected, for not only was he 
much too far removed from the beaten track to be 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 


72 

easily accessible, but his removal from Etzel was 
kept secret. Indeed, when the winter came, and the 
snow drifted about his hermitage, even the bearers 
of food from the abbess found it difficult to ap- 
proach his door. So much did he suffer from cold 
and hunger that there were moments when he was 
strongly tempted to make his way back to the priory 
of Bollingen. 

Yet here he remained for several years in perfect 
solitude, his only companions being the two ravens 
with which the forethought of his brother in religion 
had provided him, and with which he shared his 
food. 

But one day a carpenter from Wollerau, coming 
to the forest for wood, found himself in full view 
of the hermit’s retreat. Much elated with his dis- 
covery, the man spread the news throughout the 
neighbourhood. Then hunters, who now and again 
forced their way into the dense woodland^ made a 
point of visiting Meinrad. Very soon the road to his 
hut became a thoroughfare, and, just as at Etzel, he 
found himself compelled to receive a constant suc- 
cession of pilgrims. 

It was the will of God, he told himself, and he 
would not complain. To obtain perfect solitude he 
had done all that lay in his power: he could do no 
more. Perhaps the good God was satisfied with the 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 


73 


few years during which he had succeeded in main- 
taining a perfect retirement: now his divine Master 
wished him to minister directly to the souls of others. 

A statue of our Blessed Lady and the Holy Child 
was added to the simple adornments of his chapel 
by Hildegard, a daughter of Louis the German, 
who in 853 had been made abbess of the Zurich con- 
vent. This statue — destined to become famous and 
to be venerated by millions yet unborn — was soon de- 
clared to be miraculous, and the number of pilgrims 
daily increased. Except during the winter snows 
Meinrad’s solitude was now completely broken. To 
his embarrassment, the faithful began to leave gifts 
before our Lady’s humble shrine — gifts of money 
and adornments for the chapel. The money he im- 
mediately gave to the poor: whatever served to em- 
bellish the shrine he thankfully accepted. 

IV 

It was now twenty-five years since Meinrad had 
left the Priory of Bollingen to which he had been 
sent by the Abbot of Reichenau. For a long time 
past winter had been the only season of the year in 
which he could find himself in the actual solitude 
his soul loved. Yet even when the snow lay deep 
on the mountain side, and when the way to his her- 


74 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 


mitage was all but inaccessible, there were those who 
came to him seeking spiritual guidance and help. 

Meinrad was entirely happy. Only one wish of 
his heart was left unfulfilled, and every day now, as 
he offered the holy sacrifice of the Mass, he begged 
his divine Master to bestow upon him the crown of 
martyrdom he ardently desired. All his religious 
life through he had offered his whole being to his 
Creator: he now greatly desired to shed his blood for 
the love of the Redeemer. 

On the 2 1 St of January, in the year 86 1, long be- 
fore daybreak, two men entered the forest and with 
difficulty made their way to the hermitage. At their 
approach the ravens screamed wildly. Meinrad was 
just finishing Mass. The strangers knocked at the 
chapel door and were immediately admitted. “If 
only you had come a little earlier, my friends, you 
might have heard Mass,” said the man of God. 
“But now kneel here and pray, while I go and pre- 
pare a meal for you.” 

He had scarcely left the oratory when the two 
men rushed after him. He turned to them with a 
happy smile as he said: “Yes, I know well your in- 
tentions. You have come to rob me and to take 
away my life. There is no money here, as you sup- 
posed: every coin I received I gave to the poor. 
One of you may have my cloak, the other my habit. 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 


75 

But when I am dead, place a lighted candle at my 
head and another at my feet. Then escape as quickly 
as you can.” 

The robbers, still hoping to find hidden treasure, 
set upon him with their sticks, beating him about the 
head until the holy man fell dead at their feet. Thus 
was Meinrad’s last desire fulfilled. 

Tossing the body on the heap of dried leaves which 
had served the hermit as a bed, they threw over it 
a rush mat, and eagerly began to search for money. 
The place did not contain a single coin. 

Now greatly alarmed at the thought of their hor- 
rible crime, the two robbers rushed from the her- 
mitage, pursued by the screaming ravens. It was 
now daybreak, and as the men ran in the direction 
of Wollerau they were met by the carpenter who had 
been first to discover the dead saint’s retreat. Seeing 
the angry ravens flying after and making little pecks 
at the fugitives, the carpenter ordered his brother to 
keep the men in sight while he ran to the forest to 
see if aught had befallen the man of God. He 
found, of course, the dead body of the saint, with a 
lighted candle at its head and another one at the 
feet — the latter having set fire to the mat, though the 
body had not been touched by the flame. 

Back to the village ran the carpenter, his first care 
being to send his wife and friends to the hermitage 


LED BY THE SPIRIT 


76 

in order to take care of the precious corpse. Then 
along the road to Zurich he ran in hot pursuit of the 
assassins. He had not far to go, for, frightened at 
the persistent attacks of the ravens, they had taken 
shelter in a cottage, at whose door the birds were 
fluttering and making a great outcry. 

Quickly the murderers were secured and handed 
over to the authorities. In the very full public con- 
fession that the wretches made before their execution 
they related all the circumstances of the murder, one 
of them declaring that, going to the oratory to light 
a candle at the altar lamp, on his return found the 
taper he had left at the head of the body already 
alight. 

For a thousand years have Catholic pilgrims con- 
tinued to visit the spot where St. Meinrad lived and 
died. In due time a great abbey took the place of 
the little hermitage-oratory, and was called Einsie- 
deln. And to this day we see enshrined within its 
minster’s walls St. Meinrad’s miraculous statue of 
our Blessed Lady and her divine child, Jesus. 


ST. SABINE AND TOTILA 


Beloved alike of prince and hind, 

Canosi’s bishop was old and blind. 

To visit the prelate of holy fame 
The King of the Goths, Totila, came. 

Sabine, the prophet and seer and saint. 

Sat in Canosi’s cloister quaint. 

Said the king, “This pleasure to me afford: 
Come and dine to-day at my board.” 

Soon Sabine sat at the king’s right hand. 

And close to his side did a young page stand. 

The wily monarch, inclined to jest. 

Resolved the good seer’s gift to test. 

For he thought, “I will see if this bishop old 
Is gifted with prophecy as I was told.” 

77 


78 


ST. SABINE AND TOTILA 


So he called to the boy who bore the cup, 

And bade him fill the goblet up. 

“Now pledge me, I pray thee, my Lord Sabine,” 
Quoth the doubting King, “in this ancient wine.” 

But quick from the page the King did take 
The cup poured out for Sabine’s sake. 

In the royal eyes great laughter shone 
As he handed the bowl to the sightless one. 

The boy stepped back and louted low 
At the feet of the guest with the hair of snow. 

“If he deem that a page hath borne the thing. 

No prophet is he,” thought the wily King. 

No sooner thought than the prelate turned 
Eyes that no object now discerned 

Upon the smiling, royal host 

Whose victories were a nation’s boast: — 

^^Such courtesies to kings belong: 

The hand that serves me shall live long/^ 


ST. SABINE AND TOTILA 


79 


Part prophecy, and blessing part: 

Deep was the joy of the warrior’s heart. 

Deep was the wond’ring page-boy’s blush: 
But deeper Totila’s crimson flush. 


IN THE CALEFACTORY 


Round their one little fire, 

Brothers of Carmel’s fold, 

Fresh from the office of Quire, 

Merry, but terribly cold : 

^‘Make room for a frozen friar!” 

Smiled the good Prior. 

crystallum suam^ 

(He quoted) Uicut bucellas/ 

Ah, but you’ve got a touch of the rheum, 
Have you not. Brother Elias?” 

He rubbed his cold fingers and blew ’em 
With warmth to embue ’em. 

‘Thew! whence is that breath of the East? 

Somebody’s surely perfumed! 

Why it’s essence of roses at least!” — 

But the Prior suggested, assumed, 

’Twas the flowers for our Lady’s feast: 

Still the odour increased. 

At length rose the Prior, demand — ” 

^Whew!” cried a Brother, “I’ll spot him! 
It’s under my nose — it’s grand!” 

“I verily think you’ve got him:” 

8o 


IN THE CALEFACTORY 


8i 


‘Tt’s nard of the very first brand 
From an Eastern land!” 

‘‘No?” “What?” “Why, how do you mean?” 
“Brother Joel whose habit’s in rags?” 

“Brother Joel, so saintly and lean?” 

“You’re nought but a parcel of wags!” 

“O now for a comical scene!” 

“But where has he been?” 

“True gold, with nothing of dross!” 

(Brother Joel was kneeling, head bent,) 

Smiled the Prior, “There’s nothing to gloss, 

He fully accounts for the scent: 

For he begged the poor habit — my loss! — 

Of John of the Cross ^ 

^ St. John of the Cross was born at Fontibere in Old Castile, 
in the year 1542. Educated by the Fathers of the Society of 
Jesus, the boy showed an extraordinary devotion to our Blessed 
Lady, together with a remarkable love for visiting and comforting 
the sick. Not less remarkable was the ease and frequency with 
which he punished his body by the use of various instruments of 
penance. To bind himself to Mary by a closer tie, at the age 
of twenty-one he entered the Order of Our Lady of Mount Car- 
mel. From this time his entire life was an example of perfect 
sanctity. He wished to be a lay-brother, but his Superiors ordered 
him to prepare for the priesthood. Soon after his ordination he 
became associated with St. Teresa in the reform of his Order — 
persevering in this great work in spite of much misunderstanding 
and cruel persecution. Few saints have suffered more than St. 
John of the Cross: few have experienced greater interior sweet- 
ness and delight. He died in 1591. 


HERMAN THE PASSIONATE 


Happy were the young scholars of Old Corbie 
Abbey. They dwelt in a fair house of stone that was 
in itself a city — a little world almost, independent 
of the rough and half-civilised world outside. 

Yet just as the boys themselves were being trained 
in all gentleness and courtesy, and were imbibing the 
extensive knowledge of the schools of the ninth cen- 
tury, so would they in the years to come lead their 
fellow-countrymen into those ways of peace and 
pleasantness by which the devoted monks had brought 
their numerous disciples. 

Scarcely a more famous school existed. The 
great Charlemagne had chosen it for the youth of 
Saxony, hoping that on their return to the father- 
land they would show themselves foremost in every 
good word and work, and help to establish the 
Catholic religion on a firm and sure foundation. 

The abbey had had saints for its rulers and 
masters, and when its great abbot, the holy Pas- 
chasius, died, his disciple Auscharius, himself a saint, 

82 


HERMAN THE PASSIONATE 83 

succeeded to the mastership of the school. Greatly 
beloved by his young scholars, he did all in his 
power to make them holy as well as learned, and 
it is certain that his efforts were largely successful. 

Yet among so many boys of different dispositions 
and temperaments, and of various classes and nation- 
alities, it is not wonderful if now and then he had 
to deal with one whose temper was not under com- 
plete control. But with the most intractable 
Auscharius was successful, and seldom indeed was 
the holy man called upon to witness such a scene as 
the one we are about to describe. 

Blood had been shed in the cloister, it was re- 
ported to him, and the victim was either dying or 
dead. There had been a sharp and sudden boyish 
quarrel, and a passionate young Saxon named Her- 
man had struck the gentle little Fulbert on the head 
with a writing tablet. 

Pale with horror, the big band of boys saw their 
injured comrade carried to the infirmary. Filled 
with a strangely mingled feeling of indignation and 
pity they saw the fiery lad who had inflicted the 
wound led off to the abbey prison weeping bitterly. 

No need that morning to demand silence in the 
cloister school. No need to correct with the rod 
furtive pranks and illicit eating. The day hours in 
choir sounded like the Dirige of the dead. Play- 


84 HERMAN THE PASSIONATE 

time came and was spent in agitated talk, in waylay- 
ing and putting questions to the porter and infir- 
marian. “Was Fulbert still living?” “Was there any 
chance of his recovery?” “Was he conscious?” 
“Had he been anointed?” 

To these questions the infirmarian was able to 
say that the child was now quite conscious, but though 
he might not die that day there was little or no hope 
of his recovery. 

Then another tide of questions set in and the boys 
demanded to know what would happen to Herman. 
“Would he be brought before the abbot, or would 
he be handed over to the king’s officers of justice? 
If to the former, would he not be kept in prison until 
he was a man? If to the latter, he would of course 
be hanged upon the gallows.” 

To all this the infirmarian could only reply that 
the culprit was behind many bolts and bars, and that 
the irons were upon his limbs. 

In their just indignation some of the boys did not 
remember that the sorrow of the hasty-tempered lad 
now shut up in his cell was greater than their own. 
For there had been no malice in his heart, and cer- 
tainly no intention to inflict so grievous a wound 
upon poor Fulbert. 

But within the abbey walls there were two who 
thought of these things, and whose pity for the 


HERMAN THE PASSIONATE 85 

prisoner was profound. These were the dying boy 
himself and the abbot. 

Not for one moment would the holy Auscharius 
leave the child’s bedside. From the beginning he 
had seen that in a day or two at the most his gentle 
pupil’s soul would fly to God. And it was at once 
the abbot’s duty and privilege to convey every sort of 
succour and alleviation to the young patient’s body 
and soul. 

The second day came, and the news brought by 
the infirmarian was at once sad and joyful. Fulbert 
had begged that Herman might be brought to his 
bedside. With tears in his eyes the infirmarian 
described the scene. 

‘Tt was indeed a holy sight,” said the Brother. 
“That the noise of them might not distress Fulbert, 
they had taken off Herman’s shackles, though the 
iron collar was left upon his neck. Sobbing very 
bitterly Herman knelt at Fulbert’s bedside and im- 
plored his forgiveness. ^That, my poor Herman, 
you have most fully and freely and entirely,’ said 
the child, drawing down the other’s face to his. 
^From the very bottom of my heart I forgive you,’ he 
said, embracing Herman most tenderly. T know 
you did not mean to hurt me much, and until I die 
I shall not cease to pray to God for you, and to beg 
Father Abbot to let you off all punishment if he can; 


86 


HERMAN THE PASSIONATE 


and if this is not possible, to make it very light and 
not long-continued.’ 

“The poor child could only speak with difficulty, 
and had to stop to gain breath; but when he recov- 
ered a little he said: ‘And I beg Father Abbot of 
his great charity to speak to all the boys, and to beg 
them not to be angry with you, but to forgive you 
even as I, dear Herman, do from my very heart 
forgive you. And now pray to God for me that 
He may receive me into the arms of His mercy. 
And when I go hence do not cease to pray for my 
soul. For I too, Herman, have sometimes been 
naughty and passionate, and it may be that I have 
provoked you and others to anger and so caused you 
to offend Our Lord. Wherefore, when I am dead 
do not entirely forget the needs of my poor soul.’ 

“Brokenly and with many tears did Herman make 
his promises. ‘Never will I forget you, dearest Ful- 
bert,’ he cried, ‘and very willingly for your sake will 
I submit to any punishment Father Abbot may inflict' 
upon me, even if he should hand me over to the 
king’s officers, and I should be hanged by the neck 
from the gibbet.’ 

“ ‘That I will not do, my son,’ put in the abbot: 
‘already I have promised Fulbert that your life shall 
be spared, and that the secular power shall not touch 
you.’ ” 


HERMAN THE PASSIONATE 87 

Gently they led the young prisoner back to his 
cell, and bitter were the tears he shed through the 
long hours of a sleepless night. How often had not 
the good monks warned him of his passionate 
temper! How frequently they had begged him to 
place more restraint upon himself, assuring him that 
a neglect of self-control was certain to lead to 
serious trouble — sooner or later. What sad instances 
they had given him of the effects of sudden out- 
bursts of temper — murders committed by men and 
boys who had allowed themselves to be mastered by 
the passion of anger. 

He had even laughed at the idea of his doing any 
one a serious injury; yet now he had deprived some 
poor mother of a tenderly-loved son, and the abbey- 
school of one of its sunniest little scholars. 


Wearied out with grief and long vigil by the 
bedside of the dying Fulbert, the abbot at length per- 
mitted himself to be persuaded to take some little re- 
pose. 

Falling into a heavy slumber God sent him a beau- 
tiful dream. 

For in his sleep he saw a great company of martyr 
children, and in the midst of them the wonderfully 
glorified soul of young Fulbert, slowly mounting 
into the heaven of heavens. 


HERMAN THE PASSIONATE 


As he marvelled not a little at the sight, the voice 
of an angel sounded in the abbot’s ears. 

^‘Do not wonder,” said the angel, “that the soul 
of this pure boy is passing straight into the paradise 
of God. Whatever penalty was due to the faults he 
committed in his earthly life had been abundantly 
satisfied by the great patience with which he bore his 
grievous pain; by the perfection of the forgiveness 
with which he pardoned his assailant and the many 
prayers he offered for him; by his loving resigna- 
tion to the holy will, and the readiness with which 
he accepted his early death. Nay, so greatly hath 
he won the favour and compassion of the Most High 
that henceforth the boy shall be ranked among the 
noble company of the martyrs.” 

Still sleeping and entirely absorbed in the joy of 
his vision, the abbot was suddenly aroused by Brother 
Witmar, one of the younger masters of the abbey 
school. 

“Alas! Father Abbot,” exclaimed the young monk 
weeping, “dear Fulbert has breathed his last.” 

“I know it,” replied the abbot with a sweet peace- 
ful smile, “I know it well. And, dear Brother, for 
your own consolation let me assure you that the child 
is already singing the praises of God among the 
martyrs in paradise.” 


HERMAN THE PASSIONATE 89 

That same night the three hundred and fifty 
monks and all the boys of the Abbey of Corbie sang 
the Vespers of the Dead. Never perhaps had the 
Dirige been chanted with so many tears of mingled 
joy and sorrow. For the abbot’s vision had been not 
only a source of happiness and comfort to himself 
but to the entire body of monks and scholars. 

Even the weeping Herman himself was consoled 
and strengthened. Standing in the aisle of the choir 
he tried hard to join in the psalms, for though he 
might not yet mingle with his fellow-choristers in 
the stalls, the abbot had released him from the dun- 
geon and bidden him go among his companions as 
before. Only the penitent boy had begged that the 
irons might remain upon his feet night and day, and 
that he might wear them as a perpetual penance for 
his grievous sin. This the abbot permitted, desiring 
only that a pair of light shackles of steel should be 
substituted for the heavy gyves Herman had worn in 
prison. 

Thus at Mass and Office for a twelvemonth and 
a day might have been seen kneeling in the south 
choir aisle of the Abbey of Corbie a solitary boy 
with fetters upon his feet; a lad who knelt and prayed 
with fervour and devotion, but scarcely dared to 
raise his eyes to the altar of God. 

But the good that men, and even boys, do lives 


90 


HERMAN THE PASSIONATE 


after them, and though many of the young scholars 
of the abbey were at first tempted to shrink from 
the lad who moved among them in chains, for the 
love of Fulbert they would not add one whit to 
Herman’s penance. Some of them even tried to 
cheer him by kind words, and coax him to join in 
their games and play. For he had become a true 
penitent, very gentle and humble, fully resolved to 
give himself wholly to the service of God, and ever 
to remain the faithful bedesman of the dead Ful- 
bert. 


AN OXFORD SCHOLAR 


Edmund Rich was the son of a holy mother. 
“Here lies buried Mabel, the Flower of Widows,” 
was the inscription placed upon her tomb at Abing- 
don, and it is said that miracles were wrought through 
her intercession. Two of her sons have been hon- 
oured with the title of saint, but her eldest boy, Ed- 
mund, is among the best known of our English can- 
onised ecclesiastics. 

“Fruitful, fragrant, and blooming,” is the descrip- 
tion given by an old writer of Mabel Rich: “fruit- 
ful in devout works, fragrant in her holy reputation, 
and blooming with singular purity of life.” There 
was a thoroughness in her religion which is some- 
times wanting in the devout of our own day. St. 
Edmund’s mother did not try to play the part of a 
woman of fashion and that of a devotee. “Under 
her matron’s cloak she wore a tolerably fair gown, 
and under the gown a tunic; but that she might 
please God who seeth in secret, under the tunic she 
wore a metal bodice, and under that a garment of 
hair-cloth.” 


91 


92 


AN OXFORD SCHOLAR 


After her husband’s death she gave herself en- 
tirely to good works — the first and chief of which 
was the care and education of her sons and daughters. 
She was a woman of intellect, bent upon giving her 
sons the best education obtainable. From their 
infancy she showed them how to say “no” to them- 
selves, how to check greediness, how to become 
masters of their appetites. She not only taught them 
how to pray and to assist intelligently at the Offices 
of the Church, but she led them to exercise their 
reasoning faculties and to take a real interest in all 
high and worthy studies. Most dearly would she 
have liked to keep her boys at home; but then she 
really loved her children, and she would not be 
guilty of that selfishness which so often and so mis- 
takenly goes under the name of love. Her own per- 
sonal consolation and happiness she willingly 
sacrificed for the lasting good of her sons. 

Though we know that St. Edmund of Canterbury 
died on the i6th of November 1240, we are not sure 
of the exact date of his birth: probably it was about 
the year 1180. “Abingdon reared him,” says the 
Lambeth MS.; “Oxford educated him; Paris 
brought him to the perfection of man’s estate; Salis- 
bury drew him to the lot of the sons of God; Canter- 
bury exalted him with the pontifical mitre; Pon- 
tigny received him living but an exile ; Soisy received 


AN OXFORD SCHOLAR 


93 

his dying breath; Provins gave sepulture to a por- 
tion of his remains.” 

Edmund was very young when he first went to 
a school attached to the Church of St. Mary the 
Virgin, Oxford. Scarcely out of his infancy, it is 
not surprising to hear that the chant attracted him 
more than prayers. On one occasion he and some 
other small boys ran out of church after the Eleva- 
tion of the Mass in order to play, and an old legend 
tells us that he received a blow on the face from an 
unseen hand, and heard a voice which bade him 
return to the church, for that it was the time of 
holy Mass. Never again did the little boy leave 
church until Mass was finished. 

As he approached his teens he became very 
thoughtful, caring less for play and giving more 
time to prayer. Abingdon was within easy reach 
of Oxford, and from time to time he was able to 
see his mother, who greatly encouraged him in the 
devout and studious life he was leading. Indeed 
her judicious and excellent training was beginning 
to bring forth much fruit. With joy the holy widow 
saw that God was calling her boy to the higher life. 
Two wonderful manifestations of the favour of 
Heaven were made to him in these early years. 
Writers differ as to which was the first of these ex- 
traordinary favours, but Edmund was probably in his 


94 


AN OXFORD SCHOLAR 


twelfth year when on account of some difficulty or 
temptation he begged the help of his confessor. 
The boy was advised to commend himself very ear- 
nestly to our Blessed Lady, and indeed to bind him- 
self to her by an eternal compact. Following this 
advice quite literally, Edmund consecrated himself 
to God and His Blessed Mother by a binding vow. 

First of ail, however, the boy bought two rings of 
the same pattern, each engraved with the words of 
the Ave Maria. Then he went to our Lady’s altar 
and dedicated himself to her service by a vow of 
perpetual chastity. And in order to ratify this vow 
he placed one of the rings upon a finger of Mary’s 
statue saying: ‘‘To thee, O Virgin of virgins, most 
chaste Mother of my Lord Jesus Christ, I vow, 
promise, and devote the gift of my virginity. With 
this ring I pledge thee, I choose thee, ^nd I cor- 
dially adopt thee for my Lady and Spouse, so that I 
may be worthy henceforth as a virgin, to render 
thee, a virgin, a grateful and more seemly worship.” 
Then bowing himself down before the statue he 
prayed again with intense fervour and many tears, 
begging his dear Lady to obtain for him the gift 
of perseverance in the service of her divine Son, 
and the grace to walk worthily in the footsteps of 
the Beloved Disciple, St. John. 

The prayer being finished, Edmund rose to re- 


AN OXFORD SCHOLAR 


95 


move the ring from the finger of Our Lady’s image, 
as he did not wish inquiries to be made about it; to 
his intense astonishment he could not stir it, and in 
spite of strenuous efforts he was compelled to leave 
it there. This prodigy filled him with gladness. 
He could not but believe that Our Lady had accepted 
his pledge, and that she had received him as her 
spouse. The other ring he placed on his own finger 
and wore it until his death. One chronicler tells us 
that the image was on the north side of the Church 
of St. Mary at Oxford; that he himself had seen 
the ring, and that the fact was generally known 
among the students of his time. 

The scene of the second prodigy was a meadow 
near Oxford and the time was midsummer. The 
boys were at play, and though Edmund had ac- 
companied them he was walking now a little apart 
from them and entertaining himself with sweet and 
holy thoughts. Suddenly he looked up and saw 
standing before him a boy of marvellous beauty. 
An instant before he had thought himself alone, 
though his comrades were in the near distance. 
While he marvelled at the boy’s white and ruddy 
face, Edmund found himself greeted with “Hail, 
My well-beloved!” He knew not what to answer, 
but the radiant child immediately asked him, “Do 
you not know Me?’' Edmund, wondering perhaps if 


96 AN OXFORD SCHOLAR 

the beautiful stranger had lately come to St. Mary’s 
School, replied that he could not remember having 
seen Him before. Then the radiant boy said: “I 
am surprised that you do not know Me, because I 
sit on your right hand at school, and wherever you go, 
I go also. Look at Me and see what is written on 
My forehead.” When Edmund looked he read 
Jesus of Nazareth. Then the divine boy spoke to 
him very sweetly and lovingly, saying: “Edmund, I 
am He for whose sake you have inflicted pain upon 
your body, and from whom you look for an eternal 
reward. Only persevere in your good course, and 
I promise you that everything your mother taught 
you to expect from Me shall be given to you a hun- 
dred-fold.” Then the holy boy, Jesus, wrote His 
name upon Edmund’s forehead, bidding him fre- 
quently to renew the sign — which tradition tells us 
was the letters I.N.R.I. 


A MONASTIC FIG-TREE 


In the middle of the great garden of the monas- 
tery of Muchon in Egypt there stood a large fig-tree, 
the fruit of which was surpassingly good. Though 
there were many other fig-trees in the garden, there 
was not one to be compared to this, and the old 
monk, Brother Jonas, who was the custodian of the 
figs as well as of the vines and date-trees, was anx- 
ious that its luscious fruit should be reserved for 
travellers and for guests. During the five-and- 
eighty years he had been gardener, never once had 
he tasted grape or date or fig. His food was always 
a salad of herbs mixed with a little vinegar. 

Yet do what he could the big succulent figs from 
this particular tree were always taken before he could 
gather them. There were boys in the neighbour- 
hood, and their movements were too quick for the 
poor old Brother. There were boys in the monas- 
tery, pupils of the monks, and even some who were 
aspirants to the noviceship, and to several of these 
lads the delicious figs on this particular tree were 
irresistible. Yet Jonas did not make any formal 
97 


A MONASTIC FIG-TREE 


98 

complaint, and it may be that, much as he desired to 
preserve the fruit for guests, he had no strong feel- 
ing against the young culprits who were always too 
active to be discovered. 

A wonderfully holy old man was Brother Jonas, 
always at work when he was not at prayer; indeed, 
like all saintly men, he prayed as he worked. Even 
when night came he would go to his little cell after 
supper and, sitting there in the dark, would begin 
to weave rushes into mats and carpets — a task that 
through long usage he could accomplish quite 
well without a light. There he would sit, recit- 
ing psalms and passages of Holy Scripture, until 
it was time for the night Office. After assisting 
at Matins and Lauds he would go back to his 
cell, and again seating himself would sleep till 
dawn. 

As time went on, it is likely that Brother Jonas 
developed a scruple in regard to his silence concern- 
ing the stolen figs. At any rate, when it became 
known that the world-renowned abbot, St. Pacho- 
mius, was making a visitation of the Muchon mon- 
astery, the old gardener’s conscience told him that he 
was bound to speak to the holy man about the dis- 
appearance of the fruit. For, being a really holy 
man, St. Pachomius was sure to take a reasonable 
view of the matter. Very severe toward himself, 


A MONASTIC FIG-TREE 


99 


and even toward monks who showed signs of pride 
and self-will, the abbot was kind as a mother in his 
treatment of the weak and the tempted, and partic- 
ularly of the children whose parents had committed 
them to the care of the Religious. 

Perhaps Brother Jonas called to mind what had 
happened at the monastery of Pabau. Besides bread 
and cheese, salt fish, olives, figs, and other fruits, 
boiled vegetables were served at the principal meal, 
though the last-mentioned were only eaten by the old 
men and the young boys. Supper was served for all, 
but as a rule those in good health did not partake 
of it. 

For two whole months Pachomius had not visited 
Pabau, and as soon as he was sighted in the distance 
some of the brethren ran to meet him : so did the boys, 
for they had something to say to him. He noticed 
their eagerness to speak with him, and, like the tender 
father he was, he quickly gave them the opportunity. 
He guessed that they had a little grievance of some 
kind. 

“O Father,” one of them burst forth at length, 
^^it is such a long time since we have seen you ; and 
do you know that since you were here last the cooks 
have never sent in a drop of soup, or one single dish 
of boiled vegetables.” : 


lOO 


A MONASTIC FIG-TREE 


“My poor children!” exclaimed the astonished 
abbot, “is this really so?” 

“Yes, indeed. Father,” the boys cried in chorus, 
“neither soup nor cooked vegetables have we had 
for two whole months.” 

“O but, my dear children, this is very sad indeed, 
and quite contrary to my orders. However, be 
quite sure that for the future you will have both 
soup and vegetables every day. You are growing 
boys, and you have need of good and plentiful food. 
I will look into the matter at once.” 

On arriving at the monastery Pachomius went 
straight to the kitchen. As the establishment was 
a large one there were several cooks, and the abbot 
was wondering what they could possibly find to do 
in a house where there was no meat to be roasted, 
and indeed so little to be done in the way of cooking 
— except the making of soup and the boiling of 
vegetables. He found the Brother who was at the 
head of the cooks very busy indeed — plaiting reed- 
mats, so universally used in the East that there is al- 
ways a good market for them. 

“Brother,” said the holy man when they had sa- 
luted each other, “how long is it since you made any 
soup?” 

“Well, Father Abbot,” answered the cook, “I 
think it must be quite two .months ago.” 


A MONASTIC FIG-TREE loi 

“Two months!” exclaimed Pachomius; “two 
months since soup and cooked vegetables were served 
in the refectory?” 

“Yes, Father,” replied the cook sheepishly: “but 
I will tell you how it was. The truth is, Father 
Abbot, the monks of Pabau are such mortified men 
that very few of them ever so much as look at the 
soup or the cooked vegetables. So I really thought 
I might just as well save the time and the money, and 
do something that would be really profitable to the 
monastery.” 

“Excellent reasoning. Brother,” said Pachomius 
drily; “very logical indeed. And of course I am de- 
lighted to find how mortified the monks are. But, 
Brother, what about those who are not allowed to 
be so abstemious? What of the weakly and the 
aged? What of the young growing boys whose 
need of the best food they can get is such a pressing 
one?” 

The cook was silent; he could only hang his head 
in shame. 

“And these wonderful reed-mats of yours — how 
many of them have you made during these two 
months?” demanded the abbot. 

“Five hundred. Father.” 

“Are they still in the monastery?” 

“Yes, Father.” 


102 


A MONASTIC FIG-TREE 


^‘Then bring them here at once. Every one of 
them shall be committed to the flames. I must teach 
you and the rest a salutary lesson. Let all the breth- 
ren be summoned and let the mats be burned before 
their eyes. Brother, you have sinned, against obedi- 
ence and against charity.” 

So the mats were burned in presence of the entire 
community and a wholesome lesson was enforced 
upon all. 

When the Abbot Pachomius came to Muchon, 
Brother Jonas had to conduct him through the gar- 
dens. Unwillingly enough did the old Brother un- 
burden himself of his complaint in regard to the 
famous fig-tree. 

“Well, well. Brother,” said the smiling abbot, 
“I suppose boys were made for figs, and figs for 
boys. Still, what you tell me is a serious breach of 
discipline and ought to be discouraged. Moreover, 
for the sake of the lads who will some day become 
monks, we must check these depredations, for in after 
years they will have big scruples in regard to them. 
Hast thou forgotten Macarius, the Egyptian, who 
never forgave himself for having stolen some figs 
when he was a little lad? Really, Brother, it seems 
to me the best, nay the only thing to do is to cut down 
this particular tree. You have plenty of the ordinary 


A MONASTIC FIG-TREE 


103 

kind, have you not? — quite enough to supply the 
refectory with wholesome fruit?” 

Very sorrowfully did the Brother admit the fact. 
However, the abbot soon perceived that the old man 
was greatly distressed at the thought of losing the 
tree of which he was so proud. Indeed, though 
Jonas did not permit himself to say one word against 
his Superior’s command, he could not conceal his 
tears. 

‘Well, well, Brother,” said Pachomius gently, “let 
us spare it. We will try some other means of pre- 
venting these little thefts. It seemed to me that the 
best thing was to remove the occasion, but it may be 
better to reason with the youngsters and to get them 
to resist the temptation to self-indulgence.” 

Very warmly did the Brother thank St. Pachomius 
for his kindness. Now at any rate he would still 
have some superior fruit to offer to the guests who 
so frequently visited the monastery: if the abbot 
spoke to the lads, for the future they would surely 
spare this luscious fruit. And no doubt some of 
them would accuse themselves of their fault, and do 
penance for it. 

On the following morning when Brother Jonas 
went to look at the tree, he found that during the 
night it had withered away! Yes, there was no 


104 A MONASTIC FIG-TREE 

doubt about the fact: his favourite tree was dead. 

What to think of it Jonas did not know. Of one 
thing he was quite sure, the good abbot had not 
brought it about. Was it possible that God was dis- 
pleased with him, Jonas, for wishing the tree to be 
spared? However this might be, he determined 
never again to oppose the will of his Superior. 

The tree was dead, and after a time Jonas re- 
joiced, for never again could it be an occasion of sin 
to man or boy. The very fact that it had withered 
away so suddenly would make the youngsters 
thoughtful. As for himself, well, he had other trees 
to look after, and plenty of figs to pluck in due sea- 
son. Not yet had he filled up the measure of his 
eighty-five years of labour in the monastery garden. 

But to the last day of his life he worked. On a 
certain morning he was missing from the office of 
Matins. Going to his cell at dawn, the monks found 
him sitting there with a half-plaited mat upon his 
knee. His soul was with the God he had always 
loved and served. 

They buried him with the rushes in his hands. 


TITIAN 


CITY of rose and white, rising out of an emerald 
sea against a sky of sapphire blue.” So Turner 
spoke of Venice three centuries after its charm had 
burst upon the artist eyes of the child Titian. 

Home, the home of Cadore the barren, had been 
exchanged for Venice the sumptuous and the splen- 
did; the waters of the Piave tearing down from the 
Carnic Alps — a scene that must have strangely in- 
fluenced the future painter of the first “landscape” 
— are abandoned for the lagoons of the Bride of the 
Sea, and the tranquil splendours of the Adriatic. 
The lowly cottage of Arsenale in the Sotto Gastello 
is succeeded by a home in the city of palaces. 
Once, as the handsome child ran riot be- 
neath the very shadow of the Castle of Cadore, he 
had thought never to see a structure more imposing 
than this relic of the barbarous times ; his eyes now 
see the glory of Venice in the full pride of all that 
the Renaissance has accomplished for her. 

A short while and thou, dear lad, shalt be paint- 
ing thy first fresco on the front of yonder palace. 

105 


io6 


TITIAN 


It is the home of the Morosini. The great ones 
of Venice shall hear of thee ere thou hast lived a 
decade in their midst. Thou shalt go from church 
to palace — from palace to church ; everywhere shalt 
thou leave behind thee the fruit of thy wonderful 
genius. 

First, however, must thou be content to follow the 
rules of Zuccato, in thy uncle’s house. He, thy 
master and painter, mosaicist, and teacher as he is, 
shall be forgotten : thy name shalt live as long as men 
love art. Before thy kindling eyes Gentile Bellini 
shall spread his treasures — the antiques of which he 
is the delighted owner. Thou shalt startle this great 
master, and shalt anger him at thy rapidity of pro- 
duction ; then shalt thou betake thyself to another and 
a greater Bellini — Giovanni his brother. It were 
well for thee to linger with these and such as these. 
The living and the dead Christ, Mary His mother 
and the saints are by the gentle masters preferred 
to the often-times hateful scenes from classic legends. 
Thy fellow-pupil, friend, and intimate shall be 
Giorgione — himself a prince of painters. The 
glory of Raphael shall rise and continue to shine — 
even after his life hath set in death without obscur- 
ing one single ray of thy brilliancy. At the foot 
of the doge’s steps in the ducal palace, thou shalt 
fitly paint a monster St. Christopher bearing the 


TITIAN 


107 


Holy Child. Whatever thy erstwhile master hath 
left undone in the Hall of the Great Council, shalt 
be completed by thee. Thy atelier shall be at S. 
Samuele on the Grand Canal, and centuries later 
men, thy lovers, shall labour mightily to find the 
exact position of its site. Doge after doge shall sit 
to thee; nobles and even Kings shall deem it an 
honour to be depicted by thee. 

Shines the Divine Mother and her Son with the 
boy-angel, which already, dear child, thou hast 
painted with the juices of flowers on the walls of 
the Casa Sampieri: the day is coming when thy 
great and world-renowned masterpiece of our Lady’s 
Assumption shall excite greater enthusiasm in 
Venice than did the Madonna of Cimabue in Flor- 
ence: — and no wonder, seeing that the world has 
not hitherto beheld such a glory of light and form 
and colour. Alas! that it shall not hang forever in 
the Church of the Friari for whose high altar thou 
hast expressly painted it. 

But alas and alas! that the evil one should come to 
thee in the guise of a friend. Of a truth thou shalt 
suffer for thy folly and for thy sin. Dissipation 
shall bring thee anguish of body and soul, yet Provi- 
dence shall provide thee soon with a worthy spouse. 
And now canst thou not let Pietro Aretino, the 
scoffer and the man of evil words and deeds, pass 


io8 


TITIAN 


by on his self-chosen road to hell? Scarcely canst 
thou know him and escape the evil of his polluting 
tongue and pen. Thou wilt not? Then shall the 
heaviest blow of thy life befall thee. Thy wife 
Cecilia, the mother of thy three children, shall be 
torn from thee by death. Yea, it is time that the 
good friends of thy childhood were around thee. In 
thy new house facing the sea, in the company of thy 
motherless children and thy sister Orsa, thou mayest 
perchance be induced to think on God. Will hon- 
ours and dignities give thee comfort? Many thou 
hast already achieved ; many more are at hand. The 
great Emperor Charles the Fifth awaits thee at 
Bologna, and when thou hast finished the imperial 
portrait thou shalt be Count Palatine, and knight of 
the Golden Spur. Nay, thy children also shall be- 
come lords of the empire. 

Yet there is trouble awaiting thee in Venice. The 
work in the ducal palace has long been neglected 
by thee, and now thou art compelled to give back the 
money thou hast not wholly earned. Thy rival, 
Pordenone, shall be invited to fill thy place. Hast 
ever received a bigger mortification than this? It is 
well for thee, however, that thou art an honest man, 
as well as a Count Palatine. It is well that thou 
hast progressed with the great battlepiece in the 
palace hall. Proceed, for here is an opportunity 


TITIAN 


109 


of appeasing the offended Council. This Battle of 
Cadore shall be one of thy masterpieces, and when 
thy rival dies thou shalt be reinstated as sole painter 
in these vast halls. It is true that a short year after 
thy death this monster painting of life-sized men 
and horses crashing upon the enemy, shall be burnt 
by fire, but that will be nothing to thee, lying in 
sleep in yonder church. 

And now be generous as thou art wealthy. Yea, 
let thy birthplace Cadore know and see thee, for 
there men love thee for thy past generosities. Rome, 
too, is waiting to receive thee and to bestow her 
freedom upon thee; an honour indeed, since upon no 
man hath the dignity been conferred since thy great 
contemporary, Michael Angelo, was accorded it. 
“That man would have had no equal if art had done 
as much for him as nature.” ’Twas thus he spake 
of thee once: hast thou forgotten? Thou hast been 
jealous of many: didst thou not ever regard him as 
thy master — in draughtsmanship at least? 

Become a friar, wouldst thou? Is this the effect 
of thy visit to the Sacred City? Wouldst thou suc- 
ceed to the office and work of Fra Sebastiano? 
How far is thy determination sincere? Behold, 
imperial majesty awaits thee and commands thee! 
Charles would have a second portrait from thy hand, 
and thou must needs journey to Augsburg. Of a 


no 


TITIAN 


truth the cowl will never be placed upon thy head, 
for scarcely hast thou obeyed the orders of one 
sovereign ere another summons thee. See that thy 
choicest skill be employed in this portrait of Philip 
of Spain. It is destined for Mary of England, and 
must help to press the suit of its original. 

“Man that is born of a woman. ...” Must 
whatever thou lovest most dearly be taken from thee? 
Who can tell of the love thou hadst for thy daughter 
Lavina? In how many of thy pictures is she 
present? Thou hadst brought about for her a 
wealthy marriage, but Death had marked its victim. 
No wonder thy hand grows listless! But remember 
thy own last end. Already thy four score years and 
ten are spent. The shameless Aretino is already dead 
and gone to judgment. 

It is good that a; great act of charity should be done 
by thee in thy closing years. It is well that thou 
dost continue thy. connection with Cadore, thy child- 
hood’s home. These designs for the decoration of 
a church in that neighbourhood are surely a labour 
of love. Thy failing powers cannot, it is true, put 
into execution everything that thou hast designed. 
Thy pupils will help thee with the work, but that 
Transfiguration and Annunciation shall be entirely 
thy own performance, and upon one thou shalt write 
— “Titianus fecit, fecit/' 


TITIAN 


III 


Time indeed is it for thee to think of thy last rest- 
ingplace. What better than the Chapel of the 
Crucified in the Church of the Franciscan friars? 
And in return thou wilt paint for them what per- 
chance shall be thy last work. Could aught be more 
fitting than a Pieta! 

And yet the picture of the Weeping Mother bend- 
ing over her dead Son shall never be finished by thee. 
When Disease and Death pass hand in hand through 
Venice, and more than a fourth part of the people 
perish, shall one hope to escape who has attained all 
but his century of years? 

So there, dear child, there but a little space re- 
moved from one of thy greatest works, the Madonna 
di Casa Pesaro in the Church of the good Francis- 
cans, shall thy body lie when thou hast reached 
an age longer by far than the ordinary life of man ; 
when thou hast received honours and rewards greater 
by far than those generally allotted to genius in 
its lifetime; when thou hast achieved for thyself a 
fame that places thee all but highest on the scroll of 
painters ; when thou hast amassed great wealth and 
built for thyself mansions like unto the palaces of 
princes — there on a couch of stone shall thy body lie 
beneath the awful shadow of the Rood, and (as it 
were) folded in the mantle of the Mother of God. 


ST. SIMON STOCK 


‘‘O BLISSFUL solitude and seclusion, thou art the 
true Arabia Felix upon earth, for in thee are formed 
the precious stones of virtue, of true life, and of the 
evangelical counsels, with which the heavenly 
Jerusalem will be built, the city of the great King, 
Jesus Christ. Solitude, silence, prayer, and a pen- 
itential life are, as it were, the four elements which 
make a man of good heart and will, holy and 
blessed.” 

It may be that the young Kentish boy Simon had 
read these words of St. Jerome. Or had he listened 
to the preaching of some holy monk who described in 
moving terms how, as a little child, St. John Baptist 
gave up all the comforts of home, and the loving 
care of a devoted father and mother, in order to 
lead the life of a hermit in the desert? Or was 
young Simon’s love of the Blessed Virgin so marked 
and so strong that he felt impelled to leave his happy 
Kentish family circle, so that he might serve her 
divine Son in silence and solitude? 

However it may have been, we know that after a 


II2 


ST. SIMON STOCK 


113 


childhood of strong and tender piety, at the age of 
eleven he made his way into the depths of a forest 
and chose for his dwelling-place the hollow trunk 
of an old oak tree. 

Doubtless many young boys have thought how 
pleasant it would be to have a little house of their 
own where they could live as they pleased, and so 
escape the restrictions of home and the tasks of their 
instructors. Some indeed have made the experiment 
and found it singularly unsuccessful : they have been 
only too glad to return to the discipline, as well as 
the comforts of home. 

But this young Kentish lad was not moved by 
caprice, or by a desire of greater freedom of action: 
rather he wished to bind himself by a closer rule, 
and to subject himself to a harsher discipline than 
obtained in his well-appointed home. He knew 
that the forest could yield him nothing to eat save 
the sour wild apples that grew there, the hips and 
haws, the roots and herbs: he knew that he would 
get nothing but water to drink. He realised that, 
however pleasant it might be to live and to sleep in 
the hollow stock of an oak during the heats of sum- 
mer, for the greater part of the year his lodging 
would expose him to much bodily suffering. Yet 
though he was not yet twelve years old he did not 
shrink from a life that in these days few grown men 


ST. SIMON STOCK 


114 

and fewer boys would have the courage to embrace. 

Even that quaint old writer and most bitter 
Protestant, Thomas Fuller, cannot be altogether con- 
temptuous in writing of this saintly little lad. He 
says: “We must not forget how the Carmelites boast 
very much of one Simon Stock of their order, a 
Kentish-man, or rather Kentish-boy; which, being 
but twelve years of age, went out into the woods, and 
there fed on roots and wild fruit, living in the 
trunk of a hollow tree, whence he got the surname 
of Stock, having a revelation — that soon after some 
should come out of Syria, and confirm his order; 
which came to pass when the Carmelites came here. 
He afterward became master-general of their order 
(to whom the respective provincials are accountable) 
and is said to be famous for his miracles. Let Syria, 
then, boast no longer of the sanctity of their Simon 
Stulites, so called, it seems, because constantly living 
about a stone-pillar; our Simon Stock may mate their 
Simon Stone in all particulars of holiness.” 

We need not draw any comparison between two 
great saints who were so dear to God and who did 
so much for the salvation of countless souls. The 
last man to live to himself is the hermit: the most 
fruitful and enduring work for God and for their 
neighbour is always done by men who, either for 
some portion of their lives or for the whole of them. 


ST. SIMON STOCK 


115 

have sought a solitary existence. Led by the Spirit 
into the desert, they remained there until God called 
them into His active service, when, like giants re- 
freshed with wine, they came forth in order to leave 
a lasting mark upon the history of the Church and 
even that of the world. For that which at first sight 
seems to be an almost morbid desire for their own 
salvation, soon reveals itself as the sovereign means 
for the conversion of unnumbered sinners. 

Great were Simon’s privations: great were his 
rewards. Long indeed was his preparation for the 
enduring work he had to do. Born about the year 
1165, and in the reign of Henry II, Simon was five 
years old when St. Thomas of Canterbury was 
martyred: six years later be began his noviceship 
in the oak tree. It is said to have been a probation 
of sixty years. Yet long before the hermits of Mount 
Carmel arrived in England, Simon knew of their 
coming — knew also that he himself was to be asso- 
ciated with them. In 1240 they landed in Kent. 
Three English kings had died since Simon left his 
home, Henry II, Richard I, and John: the long 
reign of Henry III was already twenty-four years 
old. Simon was now an old man of seventy-five, 
yet so hale and hearty was he, above all so wonder- 
ful in his wisdom and sanctity, that five years later 
in a General Chapter of the whole Carmelite Order, 


ii6 


ST. SIMON STOCK 


held at Aylesford in Kent, he was elected General. 
For twenty years or more he did much active work, 
founding houses of his Order in London, Oxford, 
Cambridge, York, Paris, Naples, and Bologna. 
Particularly was he zealous for the higher educa- 
tion of the young friars, and, strange as it may seem, 
favoured the active (or rather the mixed) state, 
more than that of the wholly contemplative. 

From the thirteenth century until now, who shall 
say how many millions of Catholics have worn the 
little brown scapular given by our Blessed Lady to 
St. Simon Stock? For centuries his name has been 
a household word to millions of the faithful. Kings 
and queens, as well as the humblest of the earth, have 
put on the Carmelite scapular and treasured it. 
Thus the little Kentish lad who had the pluck to 
mortify himself, to efface himself, and to lead a life 
that the best and bravest boys of to-day would find 
well-nigh intolerable, lived to become more re- 
nowned than many heroes and kings. 

St. Simon died at Bordeaux on the i6th of May, 
1266, and was buried in the cathedral of that city, 
many miracles being wrought at his tomb. 


A CHRISTMAS DREAM 


Methought I viewed the pilgrim way 
Far from Jerusalem: 

A noble army in array 
Marched by to Bethlehem. 

Moonless was that Noel night, 

And yet the glory shone 

As if the world were filled with light, 
Though day was past and gone. 

The Innocents, a jewelled host. 

Ran first with cries of glee : 

The Martyr Stephen followed post. 

In smiling ecstasy. 

Ruddy now was every robe. 

Mighty grew the ranks ; 

Every nation of the globe 
Sent its grand phalanx. 


A CHRISTMAS DREAM 


Height o’ertopping one and all, 

Giant of the band, 

Christopher the strong and tall. 
Budding staff in hand. 

For hours the long procession passed. 
Until the blood-red sheen 

Became a dazzling white at last. 

With gleam of gold between. 

Now Syrian Ephrem seemed to lead 
With canticle and hymn: 

With chanted antiphon and creed 
The pilgrims answered him. 

E’en in the dream my sight was dazed, 
So thick and fast they moved : 

Great glory o’er the highway blazed. 
The road to the Beloved. 

But though I marvelled and grew faint 
My gaze did ever turn 

To many a hero, many a saint 
Whose words still live and burn. 

The young boy-knight Sir Galahad, 
The child so pure and strong. 


A CHRISTMAS DREAM 


In burnished silver armour clad 
Marched with that holy throng. 

In habit white, with hooded head, 
With tearful eyes aflame. 

Slow gliding like the risen dead 
The Abbot Bernard came. 

King Wenceslaus the brave and bold. 
The pitiful and mild. 

Was in the ranks: no longer cold. 

His page was by his side. 

Singing sweet and singing high 
Came the Seraphic one; 

I saw as Francis drew anigh 
His face was like the sun. 

By him, with golden Rosary, 

Stepped holy Dominic, 

Destroyer of foul heresy. 

Scourge of the heretic. 

St. Anthony the highway paced; 

His every feature smiled 

As though already he embraced 
His God, a little child. 


120 


A CHRISTMAS DREAM 


I saw Sienna’s Catharine 
Among that joyful band ; 

Like stars her ruby wounds did shine, 
The ring was on her hand. 

St. Bernardine held up aloft 
His tablet all afire, 

And ever in a whisper soft, 

‘‘My Jesus!” did respire. 

Teresa and her virgins sweet, 

A great and mighty throng. 

Went by with lightsome tripping feet 
And filled the way with song. 

St. Philip with his burning heart, 
Surcharged with love’s own pain. 

Raised high his voice to take his part 
In the angelic strain. 

“Ignatius comes!” I sudden cried, 

“My own great Master dear;” 

I turned to run unto his side 
Filled full of joy and fear. 

For round him pressed a saintly throng — 
Novice, father, brother; 


A CHRISTMAS DREAM 


I2I 


Each to his ample mantle clung, 
Each clasping hand of other. 

Ah then I tried to cry to them, 

I roused myself and spoke: 

‘T too would march to Bethlehem.” 
To Christmas bells I woke. 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 


I 

If you had been in the kingdom of Aragon in 
the year 1547, in a little out-of-the-way hamlet called 
Torre Hermosa, you would have seen a seven-year- 
old peasant boy driving a small flock of sheep to 
pasture. His name was Paschal, and he was the son 
of Martin and Elizabeth Baylon, poor peasant-folk 
who worked hard for their living, and whose worldly 
wealth was all found in this little flock of sheep. 

It is Paschal’s birthday and this is the first time 
he has been entrusted with so precious a charge. 
Perhaps he looks a little older than his age: it may 
be that Spanish boys develop more quickly than do 
northern children; anyhow he is brave and fearless, 
trudging off proudly and happily to the lonely slopes 
of the Sierra where for many long hours he may not 
meet with any human companion. But solitude has 
no terrors for Paschal. 

Young as he is, and deeply attached to his father 
and mother as he ever shows himself to be, he is 

122 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 123 

delighted with the prospect of the long lonely hours 
to be spent under the blue sky with only the dumb 
sheep as companions. His parents and their neigh- 
bours will tell you that he is a child of promise and 
of blessing, and that no little lad in Torre Hermosa 
is more loved than Paschal Baylon. 

Spain has ever been the land of song and story 
and romance; but it has been very much more. 
Only those who have studied the history of this pre- 
eminently Catholic country know how strong has 
been the faith of her sons and daughters, or to what 
extent heroic sanctity has found a home within her 
borders. Every Catholic remembers that some of 
the greatest saints whose names adorn the Church’s 
calendar were Spaniards: few ordinary readers are 
aware of the great multitude of holy men and women 
who in every age have lived and died in the land of 
St. Teresa and St. Ignatius. 

Among the many advantages we enjoy in studying 
the lives of those who loved God supremely, is that 
of coming in contact — not only with the heroic ones 
themselves, but with their contemporaries; their re- 
lations and friends, their playmates and schoolfel- 
lows, their confessors and directors. A saint is 
always a glorious fact, a splendid living example, 
a mirror in which the holiness of the Incarnate God 
is clearly reflected. But no man liveth to himself: 


124 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

saint and sinner alike make themselves felt, and their 
influence for good or for evil is immense. 

Paschal had a holy father and mother, and if this 
little lad of seven has already acquired a deep devo- 
tion to the adorable Sacrament of the Altar and to 
our Blessed Lady, it is because for years past he has 
had the supreme advantage of good example and 
regular training in the practices of piety. He was 
born into a household in which the good God held 
the first place, where the Catholic faith was firmly 
held, and where the commandments of God were 
never wilfully broken. He was the child of parents 
who were poor in worldly goods, and ignorant of 
human knowledge ; but they were very rich in virtue, 
and wise with the wisdom of those who know God 
and strive to serve Him. It is important to re- 
member these things. Not every saint has had a 
holy father and mother; but how vastly would the 
number of the canonised be increased if all Catholic 
parents sought first the things that make for right- 
eousness ! 

Already in the little hamlet yonder the people 
relate pretty stories of Paschal. His mother will 
tell you that the first intelligible words he uttered 
were the sacred names of Jesus and Mary: that the 
first manual act of which he was capable was that 
of the sign of the Cross; that the first time he was 


125 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

present at Holy Mass he never took his eyes from 
the altar, and intently watched every action of the 
priest; that at the Elevation of the Host a strange 
tremour passed through the little body as it lay in 
her arms. 

She will tell you also of the terrible fright she 
and her husband suffered when for several hours 
the little one disappeared and, though they visited 
every house in the village, they could not find him; 
how at length they felt certain that their pretty blue- 
eyed little lad had been carried off by gipsies — when 
suddenly she ran to the church and found her dar- 
ling crawling up the steps of the high altar. 

You will hear these stories with the respect due to 
a mother, though you may not attach too much im- 
portance to them, or see in them anything very 
extraordinary — except perhaps in the light of after 
events. 

But when you begin to chat with the village folk 
and you hear that Paschal’s mother is entirely oc- 
cupied in her household duties; that she is a 
supremely good wife and mother; that she never 
speaks ill of her neighbours, and never meddles with 
their affairs except to do them a good turn; that the 
only complaint ever made against her to her hus- 
band — who rebuked the busybody that made it — 
was that she gave too much bread away to the poor: 


126 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

I say that when you hear these things you will, if 
you are wise, take heed of them and attach very 
much importance to them, for in truth they are the 
things that count. 

According to your temperament, still more per- 
haps according to the strength of your faith, you 
may or may not be interested in the fact that long 
before little Paschal reached the ripe age of seven 
he would haunt the village church; that his greatest 
happiness was to assist at Mass and at the Divine 
Office; that he delighted in saying the beads, and in 
reverencing holy pictures and images : that he will- 
ingly learned from his mother all those pious ex- 
ercises which are so dear to a devout Catholic. 

But when you hear that his brother and sister 
loved and reverenced him; that he took care never 
to hinder their amusements, or to show selfishness in 
his practices of piety; that though he was younger 
than they, they brought to him all their little dif- 
ferences and abided by his decision: hearing these 
things you are bound to admire and to reverence 
him. 

Again, that a little boy should show a fondness for 
a particular kind of dress worn by a playmate is not 
wonderful, even if the dress happened to be that of 
a Religious Order. Francis Dalgado, Paschal’s lit- 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 127 

tie cousin, wore the Franciscan habit in consequence 
of a vow made by his parents. 

“To understand this incident properly,’’ says 
Father Louis-Antoine, “it must be borne in mind 
that in the Ages of Faith it was nothing unusual to 
see persons of every rank and age wearing the habit 
of one or other of the principal Religious Orders. 
People used to make a vow of wearing the habit of 
St. Dominic, of St. Francis, of the Trinitarians, and 
so forth. It was for all an edifying sight, and 
served as the living memento of graces and favours 
received from God. Those who were clothed with 
this sacred livery found an incentive to do honour 
to the religious habit by their virtues, and never 
to profane it by leading an ungodly life. In the 
Acts of the Beatification and of the Canonisation, at 
least fifty witnesses are to be met with, bound by this 
tie to various Religious Orders. 

“Amongst the children of his own age there was 
one little boy for whom Paschal cherished a particu- 
lar affection, not merely because he was his cousin and 
was also of a winning disposition, but more especi- 
ally because, in consequence of a vow made by his 
parents, he was clothed in a small Franciscan frock. 

“ ‘The first time he saw me in this frock,’ says 
Francis Dalgado in his deposition, ‘he sidled up to 


128 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

me, and would not go away. In the end I had to 
chase him away. One day he came to see me when 
I was sick in bed. No sooner had he caught sight 
of the Franciscan frock and girdle hanging at the 
foot of the bed than he laid hands on them, as on 
so much unclaimed property. It all happened in 
an instant. In the twinkling of an eye Paschal was 
transformed into a Franciscan. Never had he ap- 
peared so grand in his own eyes. He was simply 
radiant. Then he began pacing backwards and for- 
wards like a monk, with his hands in his sleeves, 
devoutly making sundry reverences and genuflec- 
tions. In short, the more he saw of the frock, the 
more it took his fancy; and when required to give it 
up again, he became mightily crestfallen, and 
offered a stubborn resistance. ‘T want to be a friar,” 
he kept saying; “I want to be a friar!” It required 
the intervention of his mother to induce him to give 
me back my frock; which I had no mind to sur- 
render so easily. About ten or twelve years later he 
made his appearance one fine morning at our house, 
dressed in some sort of religious garb. 

“ ‘My mother congratulated him. “That’s right. 
Paschal dear,” she said to him; “in your childhood 
you often used to repeat that you would one day be- 
come a friar. I see that you are a boy of your word 
and that you will end by entering the monastery.” ’ 


129 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

‘‘After the scene described above, Elizabeth led 
the culprit home, weeping bitterly and quite incon- 
solable because he was not allowed to become a wee 
friar. The biographers see in this vexation some- 
thing more than the peevishness of a child deprived 
of its favourite toy. In this instinctive longing for 
the Franciscan habit they recognise the first token 
of the designs of Almighty God relatively to his 
youthful servant.’’ 


II 

Paschal is now seven years old, and a shepherd. 
Look at the sturdy little man as he watches his sheep 
nibbling the grass of the Sierra. His shirt is of 
coarse home-spun linen; his breeches are of hard 
leather; on his unstockinged feet are heavy sandals 
of wood; his own thick hair is his only head-cover- 
ing. In his little wallet are some thick slices of 
bread and some thin slices of cheese. 

It is early morning and twelve long hours or 
more must pass before he returns to the home he 
loves and to the dear ones to whom he is so devoted. 
Worst of all for poor little Paschal, it is twelve hours 
before he can satisfy that devotion of his to the Holy 
Sacrament, a devotion which for some time past has 
developed into a habit. Yet no power on earth can 


130 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

hinder the child from thinking of and praying to 
his Divine Lord and to the Blessed Mother; nay, the 
silence and solitude favour his devotion. He can- 
not read a word, for he does not know his letters : if 
he had books they would be useless to him. 

But he has that glorious book of the life of Jesus 
Christ — the rosary. He has the fifteen holy pic- 
tures of the Joyful, Sorrowful, and Glorious 
Mysteries, for he can make them for himself. He 
has by heart that divine epic in fifteen wonderful 
cantos, the greatest and the most enduring of all 
poems. For the present this suffices him. To him 
the beads are everything: they exercise his imagina- 
tion and his memory: they fill his mind with holy 
thoughts and excite in him a great love for Jesus and 
Mary. 

The months go by and he is conscious of having a 
new desire. No member of his family has any 
knowledge of letters, though his parents are learned 
in the science of the saints. But Paschal sees that 
the priest at the altar uses a book: that at the offices 
of the Church religious men read from a printed 
volume. Moreover, some of the laity could read: 
in church and out of it Paschal occasionally caught 
sight of a book of prayers. But when he heard that 
a certain manual much in use at that time was noth- 
ing less than the Little Office of the Blessed Virgin, 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 13 1 

he was seized with an intense longing to learn to 
read, if only to satisfy his devotion to the holy 
Mother of God. He had no desire for learning as 
such : he did greatly wish to be able to use a book of 
Hours. 

Before the sixteenth century many a young shep- 
herd boy had given his abundant leisure to study, 
often with the happiest results; since that period 
many a young herd-laddie has become learned. 
But in every case these boys have met with capable 
and willing helpers : Paschal knew not where to turn 
for the assistance he sought. In that secluded cor- 
ner of Spain, in the tiny hamlet of Torre Hermosa, 
there was neither school nor tutor, even if Paschal 
could sometimes be spared from tending the sheep. 
Then, too, he was so very young. 

But this little Spanish lad had a strength of will 
and purpose before which every obstacle vanished. 
One of the most striking characteristics of the saints 
is their amazing courage. Sin weakens body and 
mind alike: virtue strengthens and makes bold. 

With what incredible labour and toil and morti- 
fication he at length bought what was at that time 
so costly, who can say? but he became the possessor 
of a copy of the Office of our Lady. He could not 
read one line of it, but he was determined to pore 
over its pages until he understood them. Never 


132 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

perhaps did any other child learn to read after so 
extraordinary a method. All day long as he kept 
his sheep he was on the lookout for a chance 
passer-by, priest or friar, layman or laywoman, 
travelling student, or what not. To these he would 
run with his finger on the letter or the word begging 
modestly and respectfully for help. What man or 
woman, however hurried, could repulse the bright 
little fellow? Certainly no priest or religious could 
refuse him the help he so assiduously sought. 
Gratefully thanking his casual tutors, he would re- 
turn to his sheep, carefully storing in his memory 
the answer he had just received. In this way, and 
in no other, did Paschal learn to read. The day 
came when the Hours of our Lady were entirely in- 
telligible to him. Who shall say with what grati- 
tude and devotion he now recited them ! 

But the child was not satisfied with this. There 
were books that spoke of God, of Mary, and of the 
saints, books that he could never hope to buy but 
which were lent to him by the parish priest, and 
by those who loved him for his goodness and his 
piety. He longed now to be able to write, merely 
in order that he might copy out some of the beauti- 
ful things he was able to read. That reading and 
writing might help him to become a student and 
eventually a scholar, never occurred to him. He 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 133 

was a shepherd-lad, and for years he remained a 
keeper of sheep. He had an ambition, but it was 
not in the direction of scholarship. Of raising him- 
self in the social scale he had not the smallest thought 
or desire. 

Again without any instruction he set himself to 
learn to write. The smallest scrap of paper he could 
find was to Paschal a treasure. Bits of every size and 
shape he picked up and fastened them together into 
a sort of book. A reed lined with resin and shut 
with an old piece of brass was his ink-pot. Lamp- 
black mixed with water, or the juices of plants, was 
his ink. From his belt hung a small leathern wallet, 
and in this he placed his Office book, his MSS., his 
pen and ink. What a treasure that paper-book be- 
came! 

Paschal was now supremely happy. In the whole 
wide world there was nothing else that he wanted. 
He was an absolutely contented child. At an age 
when many children cry for the moon, and when all 
that can be bought for money only bores them, this 
little Spanish peasant was leading an entirely bliss- 
ful life. 

Oh, bless’d effect of penury and want, 

The seed sown there, how vigorous is the plant! 

No soil like poverty for growth divine, 

As leanest land supplies the richest wine. 


134 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

Hereafter, the good God was to bestow upon the 
lad other pleasures and consolations; for the present, 
and while only a year or two removed him from the 
age of infancy, to keep his sheep, to pray to God, to 
read and to write more than satisfied him. What 
philosopher of ancient or modern times has tasted 
a millionth part of such bliss as that enjoyed by 
Paschal Baylon? 

Catholic piety is not content with the building of 
churches and chapels, still less with a religion which 
is confined to one day in the week, or rather to one 
hour. Men who believe and love carry with them 
their religion wherever they go. A secluded spot 
in the heart of a wood suggests to them the building 
of a shrine: a lofty hill is to them a pedestal upon 
which to place the Redeemer’s Cross, or an image 
of the Blessed Mother. They must make the wilder- 
ness blossom with the roses of devotion: the valley 
must rejoice in the lilies of prayer and praise. 

On a high hill some miles from Paschal’s home 
stood the shrine of our Lady of the Sierra, and it was 
in this direction that the herd-laddie led his sheep. 
Day by day he sat under the shadow of his beloved 
Mother and her fruit was sweet to his palate. He 
felt so secure in the neighbourhood of this sanctuary, 
and when he was obliged to seek fresh pasture for 
his flock, he took care to carry with him a rude imi- 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 135 

tation of the miraculous image. On his shepherd’s 
crook he had carved a figure of our Lady, sur- 
mounted by three small crosses intended to repre- 
sent the Sacred Host. So long as he was within sight 
of the statue on the hill, towards it he turned his 
sight at the time of prayer: when he could no longer 
see it he would plant his staff in the soil and, kneel- 
ing before it, recite his Hours at the appointed times. 
To him that crook was a sacred object, and it is 
needless to say that he would never use it as some 
shepherds used their staves, for striking, or for 
throwing at, the sheep. 


Ill 

Paschal’s solitude was soon broken by other herd- 
boys; indeed there were seasons when most of the 
sheep of the neighbourhood were driven to a com- 
mon pasture. To Paschal such times were try- 
ing. All sorts and conditions of men and lads in- 
vaded his privacy, and there were hours when he 
was compelled to hear foul language and to see much 
rough behaviour. Yet he made no change in his 
habits of devotion. The rudest of his companions 
never molested him, though at first he was bantered 
by some of them because he would not join in their 
dances and sports. Little by little they came to 


136 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

reverence him. The well-disposed, and there were 
many of them, began to regard him as their model. 

Young as he was, he determined to preserve his 
independence, and to secure for himself some meas- 
ure of privacy. We have already seen that this 
little peasant child had a will of extraordinary 
strength. The time came when he had to spend his 
nights, as well as his days, away from home ; for the 
shepherds had to drive their flocks so far afield that 
for a time they could not return to Torre Hermosa. 
At sunset a great fire was made, and round this 
gathered the men and lads for a noisy merry-making, 
and one which was not at all to the taste of Paschal, 
cheerful and even fun-loving as he was. 

So with branches of trees and leaves he built him- 
self a little hut: here at night-fall he would kindle 
a light, and spend his leisure in reading and writ- 
ing, and in prayer. His only intimate at this time 
was that companion of his infancy and cousin, 
Francis Dalgado, whose Franciscan habit Paschal 
had so desired to wear. Francis himself was now 
a shepherd and would sometimes visit his cousin’s 
little hut. One evening he discovered Paschal 
making certain lengths of knotted cord, of two kinds ; 
and was very curious to know for what they were to 
be used. 

“These are for rosaries,” said Paschal, showing 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 137 

the big knots he had made for Paters and the smaller 
ones for Aves. “Sometimes I wish to make little 
presents, and I cannot always get beads. These 
cords serve very well.’’ 

“Yes, yes, I see,” returned Francis, “but what are 
these other cords for. Paschal? To me they look 
very much like scourges.” 

“Well, yes,” admitted Paschal, “that is what they 
are. You see, we must do a little penance now and 
then : at least I must. I have so many sins to atone 
for, Francis.” 

“Sins! you!'^ exclaimed the cousin, shuddering as 
he examined the thick cord with its big hard knots 
that would so easily draw blood from the tender flesh 
of a little boy. “How can you talk like that when 
you know you never commit any sins?” 

Many years afterwards Francis Dalgado tried to 
describe the warmth and eloquence with which 
Paschal answered him. He had very much to atone 
for, he declared, and so earnest was he in accusing 
himself that Francis could not answer him, and went 
away thinking deeply — wondering indeed what 
would become of him if so holy a little lad as his 
cousin punished himself so cruelly for the tiny faults 
he regarded as sins. 

Little by little Paschal became the Apostle of the 
Shepherds. Both men and lads eagerly sought 


138 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

and gratefully accepted his hempen chaplets, and if 
any did not know how to say the Rosary, he willingly 
instructed them. Soon there was scarcely a shepherd 
who did not say some of the Mysteries daily. So 
bright and winning was the child that the sorrowful 
and the troubled turned to him instinctively. 
Grown men would ask his advice: the sinful would 
beg his help. He gave himself no airs: there was 
nothing precocious in him, nothing priggish. He 
was just a very cheerful and sunny little lad who 
loved God above all things, and all men and things 
for the love of God. The sheep and lambs under 
his care, the dog that helped him in his duties, were 
very dear to him: never a blow did they receive; 
never an angry imprecation did they hear. 

If a sheep strayed, the high childish treble would 
be heard crying out: “Come along, now! Come! St. 
Peter and St. John help us!” He would wave his 
staff, and so quickly would the sheep obey him that 
it is no wonder if some of the simple shepherds re- 
garded Paschal’s crook as a sort of magic wand. 
His sense of justice was so keen that if, in spite of 
his vigilance, his sheep trespassed upon private land, 
he lost no time in finding out the owner and offering 
to make restitution for the damage done, however 
trifling. He would put himself to every sort of in- 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 139 

convenience in order to find out the name of the 
farmer upon whose land the sheep had strayed; the 
moment he heard it his little paper-book was out 
of his wallet, and down went the name in ink — in 
blood if he chanced to have no ink in his reed. Of 
course there were some who laughed at him. “Your 
profits will be small enough at the end of the year,” 
said one, “if you go paying for every little trifling 
damage the sheep do.” “Better square accounts here 
than in Eternity,” smiled Paschal. 

Once Paschal had the misfortune to work under a 
Majoral, or chief of the shepherds, who was a rough 
and unscrupulous fellow enough, bad-tempered and 
violent. It was vintage time, and this man ordered 
Paschal to run into a neighbouring vineyard and 
steal some grapes. The boy refused. Seizing him 
passionately the Majoral dragged him into the vine- 
yard saying, “Now, pick some grapes instantly, or 
I will murder you on the spot.” “You must murder 
me then,” replied Paschal, “but you can’t make me 
steal.” The man turned away to get the grapes for 
himself — beaten in courage, as well as in honesty, by 
a young boy. 

Sometimes serious damage was done by the 
negligence of unknown shepherds, and then all were 
summoned to appear before the local authorities to 


140 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

give evidence on oath. But so renowned was the 
absolute truthfulness of Paschal that no oath was 
ever required of him: his bare word sufficed. 

IV 

As time went on and Paschal approached his 
teens, he began to be addressed by every one who 
knew him, as ^‘Brother Paschal.” It was taken for 
granted that sooner or later he would be a Religious. 
In his own family he had always been called “little 
monk.” And indeed from the age of seven, if not 
from an earlier time, he had lived a life of labour 
and prayer, following a fixed rule of life, with all 
the exactness of the most regular observer of a re- 
ligious rule. Moreover, he had lived a life of 
penance. 

“Hand in hand with the spirit of order there went 
the spirit of penance,” says his biographer. “Coarse 
and meagre fare, forced marches of long duration 
at every season of the year, under the scorching rays 
of the torrid sun, or amid boisterous gales and 
glacial torrents, such and other trials no less galling 
were the shepherd’s life and his daily bread. How 
vast a field open to the spirit of penance! 
Surely the most greedy for sacrifices would find 
enough satisfaction in enduring with resignation and 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 141 

cheerfulness the ready-made austerities and priva- 
tions of so rigorous an existence.” 

But with these Paschal was not content. His com- 
panions were amazed, and indeed alarmed, at the 
small quantity of food he permitted himself. He 
was now in the service of a large farmer, and re- 
ceived from his master a certain quantity of bread 
daily. Of this he would give away nothing; but 
from the food he had to buy he gave largely to those 
who were poorer than himself. 

“Tell me. Paschal, why you eat so little?” asked 
one of his companions. Paschal smiled merrily and 
said: “Well, you know, fasting suits me. I can run 
faster and do my work better when I eat less.” 

Yet when feast-days came round he was delighted 
to see others enjoying better fare, and would make a. 
show of eating with pleasure and satisfaction. 

Who does not remember that entry in Pepys' 
Diary which describes his meeting with the shep- 
herd and his little son on the Surrey Downs, about a 
century later than the time at which Paschal was 
keeping sheep. Well-known as it is, we may quote 
the passage in full. 

So the women and W. Hewer and I walked upon the Downes, 
where a flock of sheep was; and the most pleasant and innocent 
sight that ever I saw in my life — we found a shepherd and his lit- 
tle boy reading, far from any houses or sight of people, the Bible to 


142 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

him ; so I made the boy read to me, which he did, with the forced 
tone that children do usually read, that was mighty pretty, and 
then I did give him something and went to the father, and talked 
with him; and I find he had been a servant in my cozen’s house, 
and told me what was become of their old servants. He did con- 
tent himself mightily in my liking his boy’s reading, and did bless 
God for him the most like one of the old patriarchs that ever I 
saw in my life, and it brought those thoughts of the old age of 
the world to my mind for two or three days after. We took no- 
tice of his woollen knit stockings of two colours mixed, and of 
his shoes shod with iron shoes, both at the toes and heels, and 
with great nails in the soles of his feet, which was mighty pretty; 
and taking notice of them, “Why,” says the poor man, “the 
downes you see are full of stones, and we are faine to shoe our- 
selves thus; and these,” says he, “will make the stones fly till they 
sing before me.” I did give the poor man something, for which 
he was mighty thankful ; and I tried to cast stones with his home 
crooke. He values his dog mightily, that would turn a sheep any 
way which he would have him, when he goes to fold them: told 
me there was about eighteen scoare sheep in his flock, and that 
he hath four shillings a week the year round for keeping of them ; 
so we posted thence with mighty pleasure in the discourse we had 
with this poor man. 

Contrast this, pleasing as it is, with the little 
Spanish boy who, though he kept sheep in a moun- 
tainous country, filled with sharp stones and cov- 
ered with thorns and brambles, soon began to add 
going barefoot to his many voluntary mortifications. 
His master remonstrated with him, for it was no 
more the custom of Spanish shepherds to go without 
shoes than it was for the man and the boy of the 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 143 

Surrey Downs. Paschal was obliged to admit that 
he now went barefoot in order to do penance. His 
austerities were increasing with his age. He was 
now fourteen. 

It might have been fortunate for Samuel Pepys 
if he had had the good luck to meet Paschal Baylon: 
^‘mighty pleasure in the discourse” the diarist would 
certainly have had. His journal might have re- 
corded a conversion. Happy were the boys and men 
who sought out Paschal and held converse with him. 

At this period John Apparicio, a youth of twenty, 
was Paschal’s friend and confidant. John was a 
holy lad who already venerated the fourteen-year- 
old Paschal as a saint. Having the same tastes and 
the same aspirations, they encouraged each other in 
habits of prayer and penance, holding many a spirit- 
ual conference together, many a long and happy dis- 
cussion on the things that make for peace of soul. 

Among the several natural gifts the good God 
had bestowed upon Paschal was that of a singularly 
clear and melodious voice. Moreover, like many of 
his shepherd-companions, he could play skilfully 
upon the rabelico, a stringed instrument resembling 
the modern guitar. He did not neglect his gift of 
song. Realising that it was capable of being used 
to good effect in the service of God, of His im- 
maculate Mother and the saints. Paschal stored his 


144 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

mind with every kind of spiritual canticle — hymns 
from the Divine Office, vernacular carols to the 
Holy Child, madrigals to Mary, and all the popular 
ballads and refrains which dealt with the lives of 
the saints. Like St. Aldhelm, he was an apostle of 
song. He would be our Lady's lutenist. Con- 
vincingly he would preach to others through the 
medium of sweet sounds and sweeter words. With 
the lyrics of love-sick poets, however elegant their 
diction, however classical their phraseology, he 
would have nothing to do. Insipid to the last degree 
was every song unless he found in it some holy or 
blessed name. Paschal was born for something 
higher and holier and of more enduring interest than 
the laudation of mere created beauty. He would in- 
deed invoke that 

Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse; 

Blest pair of sirens, pledges of heaven’s joy, 

but it should be in order that he and others might 
unite themselves to 

That undisturbed song of pure concent. 

Ay sung before the sapphire-colour’d throne 

To Him that sits thereon 

With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee. 

Where the bright Seraphim in burning row 
Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow. 

And the cherubic host in thousand quires 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 145 

Touch their immortal harps of golden wires, 

With those just spirits that wear victorious palms, 

Hymns devout and holy psalms 
Singing everlastingly. 

When Paschal’s rebec sounded, there would be a 
sudden hush, and one by one the shepherd lads 
would draw nearer and listen to the voice that was 
not singing for singing’s sake, but was from a pure 
heart pouring out praises to the Creator of all beauty, 
or craving the intercession of Mary and the saints. 
And one by one, it may be, the lads made Paschal’s 
tuneful prayer their own. Far away, as sometimes 
they were compelled to be, from the sanctuary of 
God, this saintly companion of theirs could make the 
country-side a temple and turn the Sierra into a 
cloister. For the Most Holy was with this young 
shepherd-boy, and it seemed as though coming to 
close quarters with him was a veritable drawing 
nearer to God. Such is the power, as well as the 
romance, of sanctity. 

Though Paschal and Apparicio were so frequently 
together, some time passed ere the latter learned the 
secret of his friend’s longing for the life of religion. 
That so holy a lad should desire to quit the world 
could surprise no one, and Apparicio at once pointed 
out the many advantages of the Cistercian Abbey of 
Our Lady of Huerta. It was in Paschal’s own 


146 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

country: it was large and well-endowed; its pastoral 
and agricultural pursuits were just suited to one 
who was a shepherd; unlike that of the country-side, 
its life was quiet and peaceful; its austerities were 
all that even Paschal could desire. 

The boy smiled, but would not hear of this abbey. 
To be within easy distance of home and friends did 
not appeal to him. He had little beside himself to 
offer to God and to religion, but he wished the 
sacrifice to be as full and as complete as possible. 
Moreover, he had already given his heart to the 
Seraphic Francis. Even so, since the first rule of his 
life was submission to the divine will, he was only 
waiting for some possible indication of the good 
pleasure of God : it came to him without long delay. 

V 

Kneeling in prayer one day near the lonely her- 
mitage of Alconcela, he suddenly saw a Franciscan 
friar accompanied by a Sister of the Order. They 
approached him and greeted him as ^‘Brother.’’ 
“In God’s name we bid you enter religion,” was 
their message ; but they did not leave him until they 
had spoken at some length on the dignity and ex- 
cellence of the religious state. When they disap- 
peared Paschal found himself in a state of extraor- 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 147 

(Unary consolation, and began to pour out his heart 
in thankfulness to God. Probably he recognised the 
two holy personages who had appeared to him as 
St, Francis of Assisi and St. Clare, but he was too 
modest to speak much of the great favour he had 
received. 

Soon after this Apparicio declared that Paschal 
worked miracles. But there came a second vision, 
and one day he appeared in the habit of a friar, worn 
however under his shepherd’s cloak. It was the last 
meeting on earth of Paschal and his friend. 

If at the age of seven Paschal showed so much 
courage and thoroughness, now that he had reached 
the age of eighteen he was not likely to be less brave 
and self-sacrificing. After taking a heart-rending 
farewell of the mother and father to whom he was 
so devoted, he set out for Valencia. Eventually he 
reached the ancient city of Monteforte and the 
Franciscan house of Our Lady of Loretto. Here he 
had to undergo a great trial. His request to be re- 
ceived among the friars was refused. Even the hope 
held out to him that perhaps at some future time he 
might be permitted to try his vocation, was but 
vague. Yet of his call to religion and to the Order 
of St. Francis, he himself had not the smallest doubt: 
only the time of it had not been revealed to him. 

Resigning himself unreservedly to that adorable 


148 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

will which was the leading object of his devotion, 
he determined not to leave the neighbourhood. To 
a wealthy landowner named Martin Garcia, Paschal 
offered himself as a shepherd. His devotion began 
to increase. With difficulty he tore himself from 
his exercises of prayer, and it was only through the 
sympathetic kindness of his employer and his fel- 
low-labourers that he could rouse himself suffi- 
ciently to attend to his duties. He was grateful to 
them for giving him the violent shaking which 
sometimes was the only method of recalling him to 
the things of earth. Willingly did the head shep- 
herd permit him to hear Mass whenever he asked 
for the privilege: Paschal’s sanctity was too real to 
be misunderstood. Martin Garcia and his wife 
began to venerate the holy lad who served them so 
faithfully. 

Already Paschal had renounced whatever be- 
longed to him in the shape of worldly goods: al- 
ready he had divided his little inheritance between 
his two sisters. It was in the providence of God 
that he should have the opportunity of making a 
much greater sacrifice. 

The wealthy Garcia, his employer, began to love 
Paschal as if the lad had been his own son, and both 
he and his wife determined to make the holy young 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 149 

shepherd their heir. Paschal might at once give 
up the tending of sheep and come to live with his 
foster-parents in the city, said Garcia. 

Paschal’s only hesitation was in regard to the 
choice of terms in which he should make his refusal. 
He could only make one reply to his generous master, 
but it must be full of gratitude. Amazed as the 
rich man was at the boy’s sacrifice of so much wealth 
and comfort and luxury, he could not but admire 
it; indeed it only confirmed his previous assurance 
of Paschal’s possession of heroic virtue. From that 
moment until the day he entered Religion, Paschal 
was treated as one of the family; and the time of 
his reception into the convent of Loretto was now 
close at hand. 


VI 

The Reform of the Discalced Friars of Regular 
Observance received Paschal as a novice — to his 
lasting joy and that of the entire Order. ‘^A great 
blessing has been given to our religious family,” 
said the friars; ^hhis Brother will be the honour and 
glory of our Reform.” He was professed on the 
feast of the Purification in the year 1565, at the age 
of twenty-five. ^‘Once transplanted into the en- 


150 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

closed garden of the Lord,” says the Breviary, “this 
Lily of the Valley flourished exceedingly and dif- 
fused abroad the odour of sanctity.” 

As in these pages we are treating only of certain 
aspects of his life, we may refer the reader to the 
full biography of St. Paschal Baylon for a complete 
account of the details of a career, so wonderful in 
its asceticism and so marvellous in its prodigies. 

No men are so intensely human as the saints of 
God: they and they alone know what it is to love 
their neighbour, just because they love God su- 
premely. Mere humanitarianism when divorced 
from Christianity is the sorriest of substitutes for 
the charity which has a supernatural basis. Philan- 
thropy, when not a mere pose, easily degenerates 
into sentimentalism, and can never take the place of 
that devoted love of humanity which is the direct 
outcome of a life that is hid with Christ in God. 

Brother Paschal’s rule of life was based upon 
loftier principles than any that the most learned 
philosopher has imagined, or ever will imagine. 
“Whoever is intent upon saving his soul must have 
three hearts in one,” wrote the holy Brother: he 
tabulated the matter thus: 

1. Towards God I must have the heart of a son. 

2. Towards my neighbour the heart of a mother. 

3. Towards myself the heart of a judge. 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 151 

Only a follower of Jesus Christ could have written 
the above: only an ardent lover of the Crucified 
could have regulated his life in accordance with 
those three principles of action. Paschal’s entire 
career was made to square with these holy rules. 

From his childhood he had been an ardent lover 
of the poor; here in Religion, and as a member of 
an Order devoted to the relief of the poverty- 
stricken, the big heart of Paschal found full scope 
for the exercise of that tender mother-love which 
is ever one of the most striking characteristics of the 
saints. The poverty practised by the Alcantarine 
Reform was of the strictest kind: for this very rea- 
son, perhaps, its almsgiving was bountiful and con- 
stant. As the porter of the convent, and having to 
deal directly with the poor of Christ, Brother 
Paschal was in his element. 

To give food to the clamouring hungry was a 
daily duty — performed without stint on the part of 
Paschal who, even while he ladled out the soup, 
brought from his store of spiritual thoughts good 
words and pious counsels and holy warnings. But 
the indigent of the neighbourhood formed only a 
small part of the numbers who daily knocked at the 
convent door. Travellers of every sort and condi- 
tion claimed hospitality, for in these times inns and 
taverns were comparatively few. From the young 


152 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

apprentice or journeyman in quest of work, to the 
deformed and crippled beggars who preferred the 
life of the road to the shelter and the discipline of 
a hospice, all had to be entertained. Few of them 
ever parted from Brother Paschal without receiving 
nourishment for the soul as well as for the body. 

If there was one set of pilgrims the holy man loved 
more than another it was that of the poor students, 
of whom there were such enormous numbers in the 
Spain of the sixteenth century. In dealing with 
these needy and suffering lads, Paschal showed all 
the tact and delicacy of a man of high breeding, 
combined with the tender sympathy and motherly 
affection of the saint. 

We are told that “although foundations for their 
maintenance were not wanting, yet numberless diffi- 
culties and hardships had to be faced, and there 
were thousands of these students who were debarred 
even from these means of support. All that Paschal 
learned about them pierced his heart, and so he left 
no stone unturned to come to their assistance and 
keep them from want. They were obviously his 
favourites, and the flower of his army. In view of 
what they might one day become, he treated 
them with all manner of regard. He kept the best 
he had for them, and served them in a separate 
apartment and at a time when they would be un- 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 153 

likely to encounter the rest of his poor; so tender 
was he of their legitimate pride, and so anxious to 
encourage their efforts, and thus gain for God souls 
who might otherwise be estranged from Him by 
suffering. Tt is a duty on our part to help these 
young people,’ he would say. T can see among 
them some who later on will be the honour and glory 
of the Church, and bestow fresh lustre upon her by 
their learning.’ ” 

If Paschal showed so much tactful charity to poor 
students, we may imagine with what delicacy he 
treated people who had fallen from a state of opu- 
lence to one of dire need. They had wounds of 
soul and body, and, like a veritable Good Samari- 
tan, Paschal strove to heal them all. 

In the case of an old man who was approaching 
his hundredth birthday, a gentleman who had occu- 
pied a very high station, but who found himself 
ruined and friendless. Paschal obtained leave to be- 
come his guardian and care-taker. For years the 
holy Brother served him more faithfully, tenderly, 
and respectfully than he had ever been served by 
a hired valet in the days of his prosperity. Indeed 
Paschal took up the attitude of a retainer, and so 
respectful was his attitude, the high-born man was 
half-persuaded that he was conferring benefits, 
rather than receiving them. Observing all the 


154 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

usages of a nobleman’s servant, Paschal would never 
appear in his presence without bowing profoundly, 
and holding himself in readiness to receive any 
orders that might be given him. No wonder the 
old man died blessing one who had been to him so 
much more than a benefactor. 

But what of Paschal’s attitude towards his own 
brothers in religion? Was he, like the so-called 
Chelsea Sage, Thomas Carlyle, “gay ill to live wi’ ”? 
Did the “heart of a mother” which he displayed to 
the poor and the unfortunate grow hard and cold 
in his intercourse with his brethren? Far from it. 
For though there were times when he was misunder- 
stood — times when his boundless charity to the poor 
made some of the friars feel that they were in duty 
bound to remonstrate with him, and even to reproach 
him. Paschal had nothing for them but tenderness 
and consideration and love. “It was for the breth- 
ren of his Order that he reserved the best and choic- 
est share of his charity,” says his biographer. 

A very important office in every religious com- 
munity is that of refectorian: this office was held 
by Paschal. With such exquisite attention to detail 
did he fill it that he may be regarded as the model 
and patron saint of all refectorians. “Even from a 
simple glance round the refectory of which he is 
in charge,” says Father Louis-Antoine, “we are en- 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 155 

abled to derive a presumption in favour of his char- 
ity. This refectory, though of a truly seraphic 
poverty, is a gem of neatness and cleanliness. There 
is not a stain or a speck of dust to be seen there. 
The tables shine, not indeed with grease, but with a 
gloss produced by frequent washing and brisk rub- 
bing. Proper ventilation drives away the noxious 
odour which so frequently hangs around the walls 
of a dining-room. There are due precautions for 
preserving an agreeable freshness in summer-time, 
and to let in the rays of the sun in winter. These 
are all so many mute but expressive tokens of that 
perfect charity which leaves nothing undone, and 
never thinks it has done enough when there is ques- 
tion of procuring some solace for our neighbour. 
T lived fourteen years with Brother Paschal,’ says 
Father Navarro, ‘and I can affirm from personal 
knowledge that all the offices entrusted to him were 
fulfilled in a way which left nothing to be desired, 
and with perfect regularity. From morning till 
night he was to be seen sweeping, dusting, and wash- 
ing things committed to his charge.’ 

“In conformity with Franciscan usage, the refec- 
tory was adorned with a beautiful statue of the 
Blessed Virgin. In the eyes of Paschal, this was 
sufficient to transform it into a shrine of his glorious 
Queen. He constituted himself chaplain of this 


156 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

small oratory, and took care that the altar was al- 
ways provided with its bouquet of flowers, and its 
candles, which were lit on feast-days.” 

VII 

Beautiful is the picture given to us of this holy 
Brother entering the refectory with his basket of 
bread, and kneeling before the image of Mary to ask 
her blessing, making an offering of himself and of 
his duties “for the space of three Credos/* Rising 
up he proceeds in his own quaint and charming way 
to distribute the food. So cheery was he at all times 
that when he was not praying he would hum softly 
to himself some pious ditty, only refraining from 
breaking out into actual singing of canticles and 
hymns for fear of disturbing his brethren: for the 
gift of song was his, as we know, and to make 
melody in his heart to the Lord was with him a 
holy habit. 

What was freshest and best in the food he had 
to set out was always laid before the weakly friars 
or those whose labours were the heaviest; yet even 
here his thoughtfulness was made evident, for not 
to shame them in the eyes of their brethren every- 
thing was carefully disposed beneath the napkins. 
One of his great pleasures was to instruct the 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 157 

younger Brothers in the laying of the tables, and 
at the same time keep their thoughts fixed on holy 
things. He would say to them, e.g . : “At the begin- 
ning of the fruit season, when plums and cherries 
are scarce, you may put three in each place in hon- 
our of the Most Holy Trinity. When they are 
more plentiful, you may put five, in honour of the 
five wounds; or even seven, in honour of the seven 
gifts of the Holy Ghost.” 

Perhaps if Browning had studied the life of St. 
Paschal Baylon, instead of the scandalous chron- 
icles for which he had such a lamentable weakness, 
he might have given us a more edifying and a much 
more accurate picture of life in a Spanish cloister 
than is contained in his disgusting so-called “Solilo- 
quy.” 

“When you are sweeping the floor or washing 
the tables,” Paschal would say to the novices, “con- 
sider how greatly the soul needs being purified and 
freed from all stains and from the dust which ad- 
heres to it; so make a good act of contrition, and 
resolve to avoid every fault in future.” 

To every lowly office that a friar could possibly 
hold. Paschal was destined to add one of great im- 
portance and of considerable risk. At a time when, 
in the words of an old writer, “it would have been 


158 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

less perilous for a man to traverse the Libyan desert, 
infested by lions and tigers, than for a Catholic to 
venture into a country inhabited by Calvinists,” 
Paschal was selected by his Superiors to undertake 
an embassy into the heart of France. It was nec- 
essary that the Custos of the Discalced Friars Minor 
in Spain should communicate with the Minister- 
General of the Observance who was living in Paris. 

With his life in his hand Paschal set out bravely. 
The hatred subsequently reserved by Protestants 
for the members of the Society of Jesus was at this 
time bestowed upon the sons of St. Francis; and for 
precisely the same reason. “It is to the honour of 
the Seraphic Order that for more than a century 
the Friars were the mark of the especial hate and 
persecution of heresy, on account of their unshake- 
able loyalty to the Holy See.” 

Paschal’s pilgrimage could scarcely have been 
more painful or more dangerous, and there is no 
wonder that he thought often and longingly of the 
martyr’s crown. Again and again he seemed to be 
on the point of winning it; but though he had to 
submit to much suffering, and to injuries from which 
he never entirely recovered, it was the will of God 
that he should reach his goal and deliver the de- 
spatches, sewn between two pieces of his poor habit, 
into the hands of Father Christopher. Astounded 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 159 

at his heroism, his brethren received him with en- 
thusiastic welcome, and insisted upon his taking a 
few days’ rest before leaving for Spain. Once he 
had visited all the holy places in Paris, he was ready 
to set out, and again to brave the untold perils of 
the road. He had left his own friary with jet- 
black hair: when he returned to it his locks were 
snow-white. 


VHI 

Again Brother Paschal was to be entrusted with 
important despatches. If this second journey was 
less hazardous it was scarcely less painful, for the 
holy man had to travel on foot to the farthest limits 
of his country, without a companion, and without 
those provisions for a long journey which he might 
have received without the least infraction of the rule 
of his Order. 

Yet we should know nothing of the circum- 
stances of this wonderful pilgrimage but for the 
testimony of one who came in contact with the holy 
Brother soon after his arrival at Xeres. This valu- 
able witness, at that time a boy of fourteen, after- 
wards became a friar and a Provincial of the Order. 

“Blessed Paschal had just arrived at Xeres, to the 
joy and consolation of his Brethren,” writes this 


i6o PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

important witness. “He had been sent there by his 
Superiors at Valencia. At this time I used often 
to pay visits to the friary, as the Fathers were very 
kind to me and allowed me to come into choir, and 
even to chant the Office with them. Now, one 
morning, when we were singing the hour of Tierce, 
which immediately preceded High Mass, I saw a 
Religious, who was a stranger to me, enter the choir. 
At sight of him I felt a thrill of indescribable emo- 
tion, and could not remove my eyes from him. He 
wore no mantle, and the habit he had on was of some 
coarse material, so tight that one might have taken 
him for a man tied up in a corn-sack. When he 
had taken holy water with great devotion, and pros- 
trated himself face downwards upon the floor, he 
afterwards went and knelt beside the lectern, his 
hands raised to the height of his face. He remained 
thus six or seven minutes, as motionless as a statue. 
Although I was quite young then, and scarcely able 
to comprehend the things of God, yet I was struck 
and, as it were, fascinated by what I saw. One of 
the Brothers of the Convent approached the friar, 
and, taking him by the sleeve, invited him to rise 
and take his place in the stalls. He remained there 
during the High Mass in an attitude so full of rec- 
ollection and devotion that it brought tears to my 
eyes. During the few days he remained at Xeres 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD i6i 

there was some disputing over him. Every one 
expected a call from him. However the only peo- 
ple he visited were a relative of the Gustos, and 
certain benefactors who wished to converse with 
him, and then it was by obedience that he went. 
When making these visits of charity he was so mod- 
est in his bearing, and showed such tact and such 
piety in saying just what was needed in each case, 
that he was everywhere regarded for a great serv- 
ant of God. 

‘Tt was I myself who derived the greatest benefit 
from his reputation for holiness, as you will pres- 
ently see. I was the eldest son in a poor but numer- 
ous family, and my mother’s hope. She was practi- 
cally a widow, inasmuch as my father had emigrated 
to Peru many years ago, and nothing had been 
heard of him since. Young as I was, I worked for 
my mother, and it was upon me that she always 
counted to eke out our scanty means. In a few 
hours the hopes she had founded upon her eldest 
boy, were dissipated. A robber had effected an en- 
trance into our house, and had carried away her 
precious treasure, under her very eyes. This rob- 
ber was no other than Brother Paschal. Scarce 
had he set foot in the house when, regarding me with 
the eye of an owner, claiming his own property, he 
said to my mother: This little one belongs to me 


i 62 paschal, the shepherd 

I claim him for Our Lord and for our holy father, 
St. Francis.’ And he spoke to mother words of 
such persuasiveness and energy, that the poor woman, 
who would not have exchanged me for a kingdom, 
allowed me to go. ^ Since it is God’s will, take 
him,’ she said, weeping; ‘but go as quickly as you 
can, and on the quiet; for if our relations find out 
that you are taking the boy away from Valencia, in 
order to set him to study, they will try hard to pre- 
vent it.’ Under God, I must acknowledge, it is to 
Blessed Paschal that I shall be indebted for my 
eternal salvation. So we left hurriedly, and at 
night-time, in order to elude pursuit and capture by 
members of my family.” 

What the Venerable Father John Ximenes does 
not venture to state himself, we shall supply by 
stating that Paschal, illumined by God, divined in 
this child an elect soul, and one of the future glories 
of the Reform of St. Peter of Alcantara. This 
omission supplied, we now return to the boy’s nar- 
rative: “Before leaving our home, the holy man 
promised my mother to watch over me with a solic- 
itude and tenderness at least equal to her own. O 
well-beloved servant of God, I here attest that you 
have splendidly fulfiled your promise! Until your 
latest breath, you were my guardian angel, and, like 
another Raphael, you conducted your new Tobias in 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 163 

safety. Thanks to you, he is enabled to advance 
with steady footsteps, and avoid the pitfalls of this 
present life. I cannot express all you have been to 
me, in the first place because it is here a question of 
personal concerns, and these should remain our own 
secret, and furthermore, because words would not 
suffice, and deeds alone would be a fitting acknowl- 
edgment of such services. His last words referred 
to me: ‘Mind you, inform Father John Ximenes of 
my death,’ he said to the Friars around him. ‘Don’t 
let him forget that it was I, who took him from his 
country, and gave him to the Franciscan family.’ 

“From the very first day’s journey I was enabled, 
by studying my guide at close quarters, to form an 
idea of the austere life led by the Religious, amongst 
whom I was going to try my vocation. It was 
enough to frighten a child; but in the person of the 
holy man, mortification was accompanied by so sweet 
a charity, that, instead of being alarmed, I was at- 
tracted and gained over. I already felt a tender and 
filial affection for the good Brother, with all his 
little cares for me, and in a childish way sought 
for means to spare him fatigue. We had a mule 
with us to carry our provisions. When I seemed 
rather tired of walking, the holy man used to hoist 
me into the saddle, having previously spread his 
mantle over it by way of caparison. As for him- 


i 64 paschal, the SHEPHERD 

self, despite my daily entreaties, he would never 
avail himself of this means of resting, and made the 
whole journey on foot, leading the animal, and look- 
ing after it, when we halted, like an ordinary mule- 
teer. The provisions I spoke of were for me. He 
did not touch them, preferring to live from day to 
day by questing. To remain faithful to poverty, 
which he practised with the most extreme rigour, he 
would never accept of anything I bought at the inns. 
It was harvest-time, and ordinarily we used to sleep 
in barns left open for the harvest men. The good 
Brother used to make my little bed of straw, and, 
having covered me up in his mantle, he waited with 
the tenderness of a mother watching over the slum- 
bers of her infant, until I was asleep. Then only 
would he leave me, and, kneeling down in the op- 
posite corner of the barn, with his arms extended in 
the form of a cross, or with hands joined and raised 
to the level of his face, passed the night in prayer. 
More than once I pretended to be fast asleep and to 
snore, and then played the spy on him, and watched 
him at his prayers. 

“During the day-time he walked almost the whole 
time by himself, so as to be undisturbed in his inter- 
course with God. He used to sing the canticles of 
the Blessed Sacrament with such sweetness and de- 
votion that I listened with delight. From time to 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 165 

time, fearing that I would be overcome by ennui, 
he came and talked to me about God and heavenly 
things with fervent piety. Nevertheless, sometimes 
I was able to wrest from him some few words on 
other topics. For, to tell the truth, with the curi- 
osity of a child, I wanted an explanation of every- 
thing I saw, and I teased the holy man with my end- 
less questions. 

“We had not always the same travelling com- 
panions, and various were the characters we met with. 
Amongst others, I remember a knight we travelled 
with one evening, who was very devout to the 
Blessed Virgin. As we went along he told us an 
interesting story about Our Lady of the Rosary, and 
related how this good and powerful Mother had 
snatched him from certain death. 

“ ‘Once when I was upon a journey, I was sur- 
prised by a troop of brigands. It was about one 
o’clock at night-time. They wounded me severely 
with their poignards, and flung me into a ditch for 
dead. Then they tried to catch the mule, which 
carried a large sum of money in a valise attached 
to the saddle. But the poor beast, as though divin- 
ing their malice, put himself on the defensive and 
let fly with his heels at the miscreants so vigorously 
that no one could venture near enough to capture 
him. Then he galloped off at full speed, and thus 


i66 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

saved the money. As regards myself, no sooner had 
I recommended myself to our Lady of the Rosary 
than I found myself once more upon my feet, and 
without so much as a scratch!’ Paschal took oc- 
casion from this story to entertain us about divine 
matters, and he spoke with such efficacy that I felt my- 
self urged to be converted once and for all. Though 
only a child, the fear of God and of His judgments 
sank so deep into my heart that I wondered that I 
was not crushed by the bolts of the divine wrath, 
on account of my manifold failings and the negligent 
and imperfect manner in which I had hitherto served 
almighty God. Upon that very instant, under the 
impulse of this salutary emotion, I took the resolu- 
tion of beginning a new life, and for that purpose 
of making a general confession as soon as we arrived 
at Valencia. I communicated my ideas to the holy 
man, and he thanked Our Lord effusively for the 
conversion of his little protege. What put the fin- 
ishing stroke to my conversion was that the holy 
Brother was led to speak of mental prayer, of which 
I had not heard so much as the name, and to teach 
me the method of making it. ‘The entire perfec- 
tion of the religious soul is found in the practice of 
prayer,’ he frequently repeated. ‘But how can one 
meditate with fruit, when there is wandering of the 
mind, and superfluity of words? Recollection and 


PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 167 

silence are required, for it is by means of these that 
the soul disengages itself from things exterior, and 
is placed in a favourable condition for seeing and 
hearing God. 

^When we arrive at Granada,’ he said, ‘you 
must buy one of the spiritual works of Master Louis 
of Granada, of the Order of Friars Preachers.’ I 
followed his advice, and chose the Sinner's Guide, 
This golden book, which has contributed to the 
sanctification of so many souls, conferred upon me 
the greatest benefits, and I derived such real profit 
from it that since I became a priest and a director 
of souls I have never ceased to recommend it to be- 
ginners in the interior life. I advise them in par- 
ticular to read a dozen lines of it attentively every 
day, for I feel sure that they will not rest satisfied 
with this minimum, but will certainly go beyond 
it. From that time forward it became my constant 
travelling companion, and I was never without it. 
The good Brother himself had to moderate my 
ardour. Had he allowed me my own way, I would 
have been poring over the book day and night.” 

We set out to give a brief narrative of a truly 
wonderful life — how wonderful may be imagined 
when we remind the reader that we had scarcely 
touched upon the subject of St. Paschal’s amazing 


i68 PASCHAL, THE SHEPHERD 

mortifications, and not at all upon the countless and 
astounding miracles wrought by him during the 
greater part of his career, and after death through 
his intercession. Yet these are precisely the marked 
features of a life which, even in the annals of the 
Saints, is astounding and extraordinary: these are 
the incidents which, we trust, the reader will hasten 
to study in the complete biography of this great 
wonder-worker whose holy soul passed into heaven 
on Whit-Sunday, at the day and the hour of his 
birth, and at the age of fifty-two. 


THE MILLER’S SON 


Once upon a time there lived a miller who had 
a wife and three sons. Both the miller and his wife 
loved money more than they loved their children — 
at any rate, more than they loved their youngest 
son, Franz. The other two boys were growing so 
much like their parents that the latter were beginning 
to have a certain regard for them. 

‘‘Franz must go,’’ said the miller to his wife one 
spring evening as he looked up from his account 
books. “He must go and seek his fortune as so 
many other lads have done.” 

“He is very young,” returned the wife. “But he 
is strong and healthy even if he is not very wise.” 

“Franz is a born fool,” snapped the miller, “and 
nothing but hardships will ever cure him. Let him 
fend for himself and then he’ll learn the value of 
money.” 

“You won’t send him away empty-handed?” 
asked the wife. 

“I shall give him three florins. 

169 


If you like, you 


170 THE MILLER’S SON 

may add a loaf of bread and a flask of wine: nothing 
else.” 

‘When is he to go?” 

“To-morrow morning.” 

“But if he goes you’ll have to hire a lad to do his 
work. And Franz is a good worker.” 

“No son of mine could be lazy: you know that,” 
said the miller. “Wherever he goes he’ll always 
be able to keep himself — unless he’s fool enough to 
go on giving away everything he gets.” 

This was the head and front of Franz’s offending. 
He had never had very much to give away, and he 
had ever been most careful not to dispense the goods 
of his father and mother; but whatever he had of 
his own, food or money or gifts, was sure to find its 
way into the hands of the poor. It had been so with 
him from his infancy, and to his parents the fact 
was as puzzling as it was irritating. They gave 
away nothing but what otherwise they would have 
been compelled to throw away. 

“Franz has a tender heart,” the parish priest 
would say. 

“Franz has a soft head,” his mother would re- 
peat. 

“Franz is a born fool,” the father asserted. 

“Franz will bring us all to ruin if we don’t get 
rid of him,” was the judgment of his two brothers. 


THE MILLER’S SON 


171 

At his departure from the home of his birth no- 
body wept — except Franz himself. For the first 
mile or two his tears flowed freely. But he was 
a cheerful soul at heart, and when he reached the 
second mile-stone he began to whistle. The world 
was all before him: so were the spring and the sum- 
mer. Of the winter he would not permit himself to 
think. 

He had only just turned fourteen. There must 
be plenty of work in the world for willing 
hands, he reminded himself. Meanwhile he had 
three florins in his pocket — unbounded wealth to a 
boy who had never before owned anything but cop- 
per money. And in the bundle that was slung over 
his shoulder he had a big loaf of bread and a flask of 
country wine. 

Not far from the third mile-stone he overtook a 
little bent old man who was hobbling painfully 
along, muttering to himself and shaking his head. 
Franz bade him “good morning.” 

“There’ll never be another good morning for me 
in this world,” said the old man dolefully. “And 
the sooner I’m out of it the better.” 

“Don’t say that,” replied Franz cheerily. “Of 
course we all have our troubles, but then we have our 
joys also.” 

“By the look of you, you’ve had nothing but joys, 


172 


THE MILLER’S SON 


so far,” grumbled the man as he looked up at Franz. 

“Not quite that,” answered Franz simply. “Even 
a boy has his troubles.” 

“Yes, but not the burden of age and pain, of 
hunger and thirst.” 

“I have bread and wine in my bundle if you are 
hungry and thirsty.” 

“Fm never anything else,” said the old man. 

Franz immediately took out his loaf of bread and 
cut it in two; then giving the old man the larger 
half he produced his flask of wine. 

“I suppose you haven’t any vessel into which I 
could pour some wine for you?” 

The old man shook his head. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” said Franz. “A boy 
does not really need wine. I am sure to find a 
stream of water before noon-day. Please take this 
flask. It will cheer you and help you on your way.” 

Tears of gratitude stood in the old man’s eyes as 
he murmured his thanks and began to look for a 
grassy spot upon which he could sit and eat. 

“There is a nice sheltered place under that elm,” 
said Franz. “And now if you will give me your 
blessing I’ll get on my way.” 

“I bless you with all my soul,” rejoined the old 
man laying his hand on Franz’s head. “May your 
good angel never leave you!” 


THE MILLER’S SON 


173 


^‘Amen,” responded Franz as he rose from his 
knees. Bidding the old man adieu, he walked on 
with a lighter burden and a very light heart. 

He walked until he heard the noonday Angelus 
ringing in a distant monastery. When he had said 
the prayers he began to look out for a stream of 
water. He had been on the road for more than four 
hours and he was both hungry and thirsty. By and 
by he heard the welcome trickle of water in a road- 
side spring. Here he sat down and began to eat 
his bread. It tasted wonderfully good, he thought. 

But scarcely had he eaten one slice than a beggar 
woman and a little child came round the bend of the 
road. The child was crying and Franz knew that 
she was hungry. The woman stopped when she 
reached the spring, looked at Franz’s bread long- 
ingly, but did not speak. 

“Would you like some bread?” he asked rising to 
his feet, and offering her what remained of the 
loaf. 

“Can you really spare all this?” she asked doubt- 
fully, looking at his wooden shoes and patched 
blouse, thinking no doubt that he was a herd-lad get- 
ting his dinner. 

“Easily,” he answered. “I had a very good break- 
fast, and you, perhaps — ” 

“Neither me nor the child has had a bite this 


174 


THE MILLER’S SON 


blessed day. May the good God keep you from ever 
being as hungry as we are.” 

The woman and the child passed on, eating the 
good bread; and after drinking a draught of water 
at the spring Franz resumed his journey. 

He knew that sooner or later he would come to 
a town, at least to a village of some size. Already 
he had passed through several small hamlets, but he 
was anxious to push on until he reached some place 
of importance where he would be likely to find work. 
Never before had he been more than a mile or two 
from his father’s mill. 

By the middle of the afternoon he came to a little 
town in which there was a street of shops, and feel- 
ing very hungry he bought a loaf of bread. The 
change out of his florin felt heavy when he had 
dropped it into his pocket. Some hours of daylight 
still remained, and he would push on to the next 
village when he had rested for a while and eaten a 
good lunch of bread. 

So he came to the little market-place and sat down 
on the steps of the market cross. Scarcely had he 
seated himself when he was surrounded by ragged 
and bare-footed children, all of whom cast hungry 
glances at the loaf in his hands. 

When he left the cross he had a crust in his hand, 
and this he munched as he walked. 


THE MILLER’S SON 


175 


Night had actually fallen when he reached the 
small city of Englberg. No change out of his first 
florin was left to him. Five or six times he had over- 
taken, or had been overtaken by beggars on the road, 
and to each he had given something. 

He was now so weary that he at once began to 
look about for a lodging. Knocking at the door of 
a small hovel in a dingy, narrow street, he entered 
to find a man and a woman weeping bitterly. 

“What do you want with us?” asked the woman 
drying her eyes. 

“I came to ask if you could give me a bed for the 
night: or perhaps you could tell me where I could 
get one.” 

“There are plenty of beds in Englberg for those 
who can pay for them,” she said. 

“Well, I can pay for my bed and my supper,” said 
Franz smiling. Then looking at the man he saw 
that he was blind. 

“We want money badly enough, God knows,” said 
the man. “And we’ve got a bed to spare — worse 
luck.” 

“Why do you say worse luck?” asked the boy. 

“Because the lad who used to sleep in it will never 
want it again, poor fellow.” 

“I’m so sorry. He’s dead, I suppose?” Franz 
asked sympathetically. 


176 THE MILLER’S SON 

The man and woman broke into fresh weeping. 

‘‘It’s worse than death,” said the woman. “This 
very day the judge has sentenced him to the galleys 
for life.” 

Little by little, and with many tears, they told him 
that the boy had been accused of stealing a silver 
cup ; that though he was quite innocent he had been 
declared guilty; that the judge had sentenced him 
to be hanged, but that the sentence had been com- 
muted to a life sentence at the galleys. He was their 
only support, they added, and used to sing and per- 
form in the streets, his blind father accompanying 
him. He was a handsome, clever boy, about the age 
of Franz, and used to keep them in great comfort, 
for there was scarcely anything he could not do. 

“How I wish I could help you in his place!” said 
Franz, himself weeping. “But, alas, I can neither 
play nor sing. I could work for you, of course.” 

“Bless you for your kind heart,” replied the 
woman, “but wages are so low in this city I’m afraid 
you’d hardly be able to keep yourself.” 

“You’ve never been a tumbler or an acrobat, I 
suppose?” asked the blind man. 

“Oh, no: my father is a miller,” replied Franz 
with a sad smile. “I’ve always worked hard — ever 
since I was a child. I’m afraid I couldn’t even 


THE MILLER’S SON 


177 

dance a jig. I’ve never had time to learn any of 
these things.” 

“Ah, it’s a pity,” sighed the woman, “for I’m sure 
you’re a good lad, and I wonder your mother would 
let you begin your wander-years so soon.” 

Tired as he was before falling asleep Franz spent 
some time in considering what he could possibly do 
to help these poor people. Of course he would give 
them his two remaining florins, but very soon they 
would be in actual want. On the following morn- 
ing he intended to hear Mass and to receive holy 
communion : he would ask Our Lord to suggest some 
means of giving aid to the blind man and his crippled 
wife. 

When Franz came back from church his face and 
eyes were aglow. An idea had come to him while 
he was making his thanksgiving. He had made a 
solemn promise to his Lord. Of this he said nothing 
to the blind man and his wife, but when he had 
broken his fast and given them all the money he had 
in the world, he remarked very simply that he was 
going to try to help them a little, and that they must 
pray for his success. 

When he had bidden them adieu he went straight 
to the house of the judge who was at that time hold- 


THE MILLER’S SON 


178 

ing the assizes. After waiting for a considerable 
time he was shown into the great man’s presence. 

“My lord,” began Franz, “a poor boy named 
Hans Fechter was yesterday sentenced to the galleys 
for life. He is the son of a blind father and crip- 
pled mother: he was their sole support. I have 
come to implore your lordship to permit me to take 
his place. My parents are well-to-do and I have 
left two brothers at home, both of them older than 
myself. I am not needed: in fact my parents wished 
me to leave home and seek my fortune elsewhere.” 

The judge stared so hard that Franz trembled. 
It seemed long before his lordship spoke. 

“Boy!” he exclaimed in a loud and expostulatory 
voice, “are you mad? Do you know what you are 
seeking? Have you any idea as to what it means 
to be sent to the galleys?” 

“Yes, my lord,” said the trembling Franz. “I 
know that I shall have to be put in irons; that I 
shall have to row for many hours a day; that if I 
do not work hard and properly I shall be severely 
flogged ; that my food will not be very plentiful and 
good.” 

“And you think the prospect an enticing one?” 
asked the judge sarcastically. 

“My lord, I shall not mind it in the least when 


THE MILLER’S SON 


179 

I think of the happiness of that poor boy and his 
father and mother.” 

“And you think you can stand that sort of thing 
for a life-time? For, remember, it is a life sen- 
tence, and just because you choose to do something — 
well, I don’t know what to call it, except foolhardy 
— you must not expect ever to be released. You are 
not a St. Vincent de Paul, you know; the loss of one 
boy does not make much difference to the world at 
large.” 

“Yes, my lord,” answered Franz cheerfully, “I 
know it is for life. But I have made an offering 
of myself to the good God. Perhaps I may some 
day ask Him not to let me live to be very old.” 

The judge no longer stared. Turning away rather 
abruptly he began to refer to a big folio volume — 
perhaps to search for a precedent; but his tears made 
it difficult for him to find what he wanted. 

An hour later the irons were on Franz’s limbs, 
and he was being conveyed with some other pris- 
oners to the galleys. 

Long before noonday the blind man and his wife 
were embracing their son. But how or why he had 
been released Hans did not know — until some time 
had elapsed. 


i8o 


THE MILLER’S SON 


In a few weeks the news that their son had gone 
to the galleys as a substitute for another reached 
the ears of his parents. 

“I always said that lad was a born fool!” ex- 
claimed the miller hotly; “and here is a proof of it.” 

But the mother of Franz wept for many days. 

About a year after the day upon which Franz had 
found himself chained to an oar, news spread among 
the convicts that visitors were expected on board. 
The only visitor Franz was greatly interested in was 
the priest who came at stated times to give instruc- 
tions and to hear confessions. 

Looking up for a moment from his oar the boy 
saw a little group of people descending the ladder 
and coming towards him. There were two priests 
and — ^was it possible? — yes, the lord judge he had 
interviewed at Englberg. But when the judge 
caught sight of the fettered boy he stopped and 
turned away his head. The two priests — one of 
whom was a friar, the other the chaplain — came 
forward. 

“My child,” said the latter to Franz, “we have 
good news for you. You are free. The smith 
yonder is coming to remove your irons.” 

As they led him away from his prison they told 
him how a dying man at Englberg had made public 


THE MILLER’S SON 


i8i 

confession of the theft of the cup. Being fearful 
to keep it, or to sell it, he had concealed it in the 
clothing of Hans while the boy was giving a per- 
formance in the street. 

“So, my poor child, you are as free as the air,” 
said the friar, “and the character of Hans is en- 
tirely cleared.” 

“Not quite so free,” said the judge as he em- 
braced Franz; “for I shall make him my son and 
heir.” 

“My lord,” returned Franz simply, “I told the 
good God that if He released me before death, I 
would give myself to Him in religion. Your lord- 
ship will permit me to keep my vow?” 


THE END 


PRINTED BY BENZIGER BROTHERS, NEW YORK 
















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JUVENILE BOOKS 

20 Copyrighted Stories for the Youngj, by the Best Authors 
Special net price, $10.00 

You get the books at once, and have the use of them, while making easy 

payments 

Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page 

Juvenile Library A 

TOM PLAYFAIR; OR, MAKING A START. By Rev. F. J. Finn, S.J. 
“The best boy’s book that ever came from the press.” 

THE CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. By Rev. H. S. Spalding, S.J. “This 
is a story full of go and adventure.” 

HARRY RUSSELL, A ROCKLAND COLLEGE BOY. By Rev. J. E. Copus, 
S.J. “Father Copus takes the college hero where Father Finn has left 
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CHARLIE CHITTY'WICK. By Rev. David Bearne, S.J. Father Bearne 
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There is no mark of mawkishness in the book. 

NAN NOBODY. By Mary T. 'Waggaman. “Keeps one fascinated till the 
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LOYAL BLUE AND ROYAL SCARLET. By Marion A. Taggart. “Will 
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THE GOLDEN LILY. By Katharine T. Hinkson. “Another proof of the 
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THE MYSTERIOUS DOORWAY. By Anna T. Sadlier. “A bright, spark- 
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OLD CHARLMONT’S SEED-BED. By Sara T. Smith. “A delightful story 
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THE MADCAP SET AT ST. ANNE’S. By Marion J. Brunowe. “Plenty 
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BUNT AND BILL. By Clara Mulholland. “There are passages of true 
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THE FLOWER OF THE FLOCK. By Maurice F. Egan. “They are by no 
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PICKLE AND PEPPER. By Ella L. Dorsey. “This story is clever and 
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A HOSTAGE OF WAR. By Mary G. Bonesteel. “A wide-awake story, 
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AN EVERY DAY GIRL. By Mary T. Crowley. “One of the few tales that 
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AS TRUE AS GOLD. By Mary E. Mannix. “This book will make a name 
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AN HEIR OF DREAMS. By S. M. O’Malley. “The book is destined to 
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THE MYSTERY OF HORNBY HALL. By Anna T. Sadlier. Sure to stir 
the blood of every real boy and to delight with its finer touches the heart 
of every true girl.” 

TWO LITTLE GIRLS. By Lillian Mack. “A real tale of real children.” 

RIDINGDALE flower show. By Rev. David Bearne, S.J. “His sym- 
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HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE. By Rev. F. J. Finn, S.J. Pro- 
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THE SHERIFF OF THE BEECH FORK. By Rev. H. S. Spalding, S.J. 
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SAINT CUTHBERT’S. By Rev. J. E. Copus, S.J. “A truly inspiring tale, 
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THE TAMING OF POLLY. By Ella Loraine Dorsey. “Polly with her 
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STRONG-ARM OF AVALON. By Mary T. Waggaman. “Takes hold of the 
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JACK HILDRETH ON THE NILE. By C. May. “Courage, truth, honest 
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A KLONDIKE PICNIC. By Eleanor C. Donnelly. “Alive with the charm 
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A COLLEGE BOY. By Anthony Yorke. “Healthy, full of life, full of 
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THE GREAT CAPTAIN. By Katharine T. Hinkson. “Makes the most 
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THE YOUNG COLOR GUARD. By Mary G. Bonesteel. “The attractive- 
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THE HALDEMAN CHILDREN. By Mary E. Mannix. “Full of people 
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PAULINE ARCHER. By Anna T. Sadlier. “Sure to captivate the hearts 
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THE ARMORER OF SOLINGEN. By W. Herchenbach. “Cannot fail to 
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THE INUNDATION. By Canon Schmid. “Sure to please the young 
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THE BLISSYLVANIA POST-OFFICE. By Marion A. Taggart. “Pleasing 
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DIMPLING’S SUCCESS. By Clara Mulholland. “Vivacious and natural 
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BISTOURI- By A. Melandri. “How Bistouri traces out the plotters and 
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FRED’S LITTLE DAUGHTER. By Sara T. Smith. “The heroine wins her 
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THE SEA-GULL’S ROCK. By J. Sandeau. “The intrepidity of the little 
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JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. First Series. A collection of twenty stories 
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PERCY WYNN; OR, MAKING A BOY OF HIM. By Rev. F. J. Finn, S.J. 
“The most successful Catholic juvenile published.” 

THE RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. By Rev. H. S. Spalding, S.J. 
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SHADOWS LIFTED. By Rev. J. E. Copus, S.J. “We know of no books 
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HOW THEY WORKED THEIR WAY, AND OTHER STORIES. By 
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WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. By C. May. “Chapters of breath- 
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MILLY AVELING. By Sara Trainer Smith. “The best story Sara Trainer 
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THE TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE. By Mary T. Waggaman. “An ex- 
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THE PLAYWATER PLOT. By Mary T. Waggaman. • “How the plotters 
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AN ADVENTURE WITH THE APACHES. By Gabriel Ferry. 

PANCHO AND PANCHITA. By Mary E. Mannix. “Full of color and 
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RECRUIT TOMMY COLLINS. By Mary G. Bonesteel. “Many a boyish 
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BY BRANSCOME RIVER. By Marion A. Taggart. “A creditable book in 
every way.” 

THE QUEEN’S PAGE. By Katharine Tynan Hinkson. “Will arouse the 
young to interest in historical matters and is a good story well told.” 

MARY TRACY’S FORTUNE. By Anna T. Sadlier. “Sprightly, interesting 
and well written.” 

BOB-O’LINK. By Mary T. Waggaman. “Every boy and girl will be de- 
lighted with Bob-o’Link.” 

THREE GIRLS AND ESPECIALLY ONE. By Marion A. Taggart. “There 
is an exquisite charm in the telling.” 

WRONGFULLY ACCUSED. By W. Herchenbach. “A simple tale, enter- 
tainingly told.” 

THE CANARY BIRD. By Canon Schmid. “The story is a fine one and 
will be enjoyed by boys and girls.” 

FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. By S. H. C. J. “The children who are ble6sed 
with such stories have much to be thankful for.” 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Second Series. A collection of twenty stories 
by the foremost writers, with many full-page illustrations. 


4 


20 Copyrighted Stories for the Young 

By the Best Catholic Writers 
Sf>eoia.i» F"riob>, SIO.OO 

$1.00 down, $1.00 a month 

Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on preceding pages 


Juvenile Library D 

THE WITCH OF RIDINGDALE. By Rev. David Bearne, S.J. “Here is a 
story for boys that bids fair to equal any of Father Finn’s successes.” 

the MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY. By George Barton. There is a peculiar 
charm about this novel that the discriminating reader will ascribe to the 
author’s own personality. 

HARMONY FLATS. By C. S. Whitmore. The characters in this story are 
all drawn true to life, and the incidents are exciting. 

WAYWARD WINIFRED. By Anna T. Sadlier. A story for girls. Its 
youthful readers will enjoy the vivid description, lively conversations, and 
plenty of striking incidents, all winding up happily. 

ITOM LOSELY : BOY. By Rev. J. E. Copus, S.J. Illustrated. The writer 
knows boys and boy nature, and small-boy nature too. 

fftfORE FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. By S. H. C. J. “The children who are 
blessed with such stories have much to be thankful for.” 

#ACK O’LANTERN. By Mary T. Waggaman. This book is alive with in- 
terest. It is full of life and incident. 

JTHE BERKLEYS. By Emma Howard Wight. A truly inspiring tale, full 
of excitement. There is not a dull page. 

jLITTLE MISSY. By Mary T. Waggaman. A charming story for children 
which will be enjoyed by older folk as well. 

TOM’S LUCK-POT. By Mary T. Waggaman. Full of fun and charming 
incidents — a book that every boy should read. 

CHILDREN OF CUPA. By Mary E. Mannix. One of the most thoroughly 
unique and charming books that has found its way to the reviewing desk 
in many a day. 

FOR THE WHITE ROSE. By Katharine T. Hinkson. This book is some- 
thing more than a story; but, as a mere story, it is admirably well written. 

THE DOLLAR HUNT. From the French by E. G. Martin. Those who wish 
to get a fascinating tale should read this story. 

THE VIOLIN MAKER. From the original of Otto v. Schaching, by Sara 
Trainer Smith. There is much truth in this simple little story. 

“JACK.” By S. H. C. J. As loving and lovable a little fellow as there is in 
the world is “Jack,’’ the “pickle,” the “ragamuffin,” the defender of per- 
secuted kittens and personal principles. 

A SUMMER AT WOODVILLE. By Anna T. Sadlier. This is a beautiful 
book, in full sympathy with and delicately expressive of the author’s 
creations. 

DADDY DAN. By Mary T. Waggaman. This is a rattling good story for 
boys. 

THE BELL FOUNDRY. By Otto v. Schaching. So interesting that the 
reader will find difficulty in tearing himself away. 

TOORALLADDY. By Julia C. Walsh. An exciting story of the varied 
fortunes of an orphan boy from abject poverty in a dismal cellar to success. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Third Series. A collection of twenty stories 
by the foremost writers. 


5 


Catholic Circulating Library 


NOVELS 

12 OopyrlKlntecl Novela by tbe Beat A.iit]novS 

Sbboiai* Prick. $12.00 

You get the books at once, and have the use of them while making easy 

payments 

Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page 


Library of Novels No. I 

THE RULER OF THE KINGDOM. By Grace Keon. “Will charm any 
reader.*’ 

KIND HEARTS AND CORONETS. By J. Harrison. “A real, true life 
history, the kind one could live through and never read it for romance.” 

IN THE DAYS OF KING HAL. By Marion A. Taggart. Illustrated. “A 
tale of the time of Henry V. of England, full of adventure and excite- 
ment.” 

HEARTS OF GOLD. By I. Edhor. “It is a tale that will leave its reader 
the better for knowing its heroine, her tenderness and her heart of gold.” 

THE HEIRESS OF CRONENSTEIN. By Countess Hahn-Hahn. “An ex- 
quisite story of life and love, told in touchingly simple words.” 

THE PILKINGTON HEIR. By Anna T. Sadlier. “Skill and strength are 
shown in this story. The plot is well constructed and the characters 
vividly differentiated.” 

THE OTHER MISS LISLE. A Catholic novel of South African life. By 
M. C. Martin. A powerful story by a writer of distinct ability. 

IDOLS; OR, THE SECRET OF THE RUE CHAUSSEE D’ANTIN. By 
Raoul de Navery. “The story is a remarkably clever one; it is well con- 
structed and evinces a master hand.” 

THE SOGGARTH AROON. By Rev. Joseph Guinan, C.C. A capital Irish 
story. 

THE VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY. By Maurice F. Egan. “This 
is a novel of modern American life. The scene is laid in a pleasant colony 
of cultivated people on the banks of the Hudson, not far from West Point.” 

A WOMAN OF FORTUNE. By Christian Reid. “That great American 
Catholic novel for which so much inquiry is made, a story true in its 
picture of Americans at home and abroad.” 

PASSING SHADOWS. By Anthony Yorke. “A thoroughly charming 
story. It sparkles from first to last with interesting situations and 
dialogues that are full of sentiment. There is not a slow page.” 


12 Copyrighted Novels by the Best Authors 

Sf>koia.i^ !Prige5, S12.00 

$1.00 down, $1.00 a month 

Read oxplanstion of our Circulating Library plan on first page. 


Library of Novels No. II 

THE SENIOR LIEUTENANT’S WAGER, and Other Stories. 30 stories by 
30 of the foremost Catholic writers. 

A DAUGHTER OF KINGS. By Katharine Tynan Hinkson. “The book is 
most enjoyable.” 

THE WAY THAT LED BEYOND. By J. Harrison. “The story does not 
drag, the plot is well worked out, and the interest endures to the very 
last page.” 

CORINNE’S VOW. By Mary T. Waggaman. With 16 full-page illustrations. 
“There is genuine artistic merit in its plot and life-story. It is full of 
vitality and action.” 

THE FATAL BEACON. By F. v. Brackel. “The story is told well and 
clearly, and has a certain charm that will be found interesting. The prin- 
cipal characters are simple, good-hearted people, and the heroine’s high 
sense of courage impresses itself upon the reader as the tale proceeds.” 

THE MONK’S PARDON: An Historical Romance of the Time of Philip IV. 
of Spain. By Raoul de Navery. “A story full of stirring incidents and 
written in a lively, attractive style.” 

PERE MONNIER’S WARD. By Walter Lecky. “The characters are life- 
like and there is a pathos in the checkered life of the heroine. Pere 
Monnier is a memory that will linger.” 

TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD. By Anna T. Sadlier. “One of the 
most thoroughly original and delightful romances ever evolved from the 
pen of a Catholic writer.” 

THE UNRAVELING OF A TANGLE. By Marion A. Taggart. With four 
full-page illustrations. “This story tells of the adventures of a young 
American girl, who, in order to get possession of a fortune left her by an 
uncle, whom she had never seen, goes to France.” 

THAT MAN’S DAUGHTER. By Henry M. Ross. “A well-told story of 
American life, the scene laid in Boston, New York and California. It is 
very interesting.” 

FABIOLA’S SISTER. (A companion volume to Cardinal Wiseman’s “Fa- 
biola.”) Adapted by A. C. Clarke. “A book to read— a worthy sequel 
to that masterpiece, ‘Fabiola.’ ” 

THE OUTLAW OF CAMARGUE: A Novel. By A. de Lamothe. “A capita! 
novel with plenty of go in it.” 


7 


12 Copyrighted Novels by the Best Authors 

Sp>edoij!^i> Prick. $12.00 

$1.00 down, $1.00 a month 

Read explanation of our Circulating Library plan on first page. 


Library of Novels No. Ill 

•‘NOT A JUDGMENT.” By Grace Keon. “Beyond doubt the best Catholic 
novel of the year.” 

THE RED INN OF ST. LYPHAR. By Anna T. Sadlier. “A story of 
stirring times in France, when the sturdy Vendeans rose in defence of 
country and religion.” 

HSR FATHER’S DAUGHTER. By Katharine Tynan Hinkson. “So 
dramatic and so intensely interesting that the reader will find it difficult 
to tear himself away from the story.” 

pUT OF BONDAGE. By M. Holt. “Once his book becomes known it will 
be read by a great niany.” 

MARCELLA GRACE. By Rosa Mwlholland. Mr. Gladstone called this 
novel a tnasteypiece. 

THE CIRCUS-RIDER’S DAUGHTER. By F. v. Brackel. This work has 
achieved a remarkable success for a Catholic novel, for in less than a year 
three editions were printed. 

CARROLL DARE. By Mary T. Waggaman. Illustrated. “A thrilling story, 
with the dash of horses and the clash of swords on every side.” 

DION AND THE SIBYLS. By Miles Keon. “Dion is as brilliantly, as 
accurately and as elegantly classical, as scholarly in style and diction, as 
fascinating in plot and as vivid in action as Ben Hur.” 

HER BLIND FOLLY. By H. M. Ross. A clever story with an interesting 
and well-managed plot and mar:y striking situations. 

MISS ERIN. By M. E. Francis. "‘A captivating tale of Irish life, redolent 
of genuine Celtic wit, love and pathos.” 

MR. BILLY BUTTONS. By Walter Lecky. “The figures who move in 
rugged grandeur through these pages are as fresh and unspoiled in their 
way as the good folk of Drumtochty.” 

CONNOR D’ARCY’S STRUGGLES. By Mrs. W. M. Bertholds. “A story 
of which the spirit is so fine and the Catholic characters so nobly con 
ceivcd.” 


8 


Continuation Libmiry 


YOU SUBSCRIBE FOR FOUR NEW 
NOVELS A YEAR, TO BE MAILED TO 
YOU AS PUBLISHED, AND RECEIVE 
BENZIGER^S MAGAZINE FREE. 


Each year we publish four new novels by the best Cath- 
olic authors. These novels are interesting beyond the 
ordinary — not religious, but Catholic in tone and feeling. 
They are issued in the best modern style. 

We ask you to give us a standing order for these novels. 
The price is $1.25, which will be charged as each volume is 
issued, and the volume sent postage paid. 

As a special inducement for giving us a standing order 
for the novels, we shall include free a subscription to 
Benziger^s Magazine. Benzige/s Magazine is recognized 
as the best and handsomest Catholic periodical published, 
and we are sure will be welcomed in every library. The 
regular price of the Magazine is $2.00 a year. 

Thus for $5.00 a year — paid $1.25 at a time — you will get 
four good books and receive in addition a year’s subscription 
to Benziger's Magazine. The Magazine will be continued 
from year to year, as long as the standing order for the 
novels is in force, which will be till countermanded. 


9 


TTHK KAMOUS 


ROUND TABLE SERIES 


4 VOIvUNIKS, S6.00 

60 CENTS DOWN; 60 CENTS A, MONTH 

On payment of 50 cents you get the books and a free subscription to 

Benziger’s Magazine 

The Greatest Stories by the foremost Catholic Writers in the World 

With Portraits of the Authors, Sketches of their Lives, and a List of 
their Works. Four exquisite volumes, containing the masterpieces of 36 of the 
foremost writers of America, England, Ireland, Germany, and Franc*. Each 
story complete. Open any volume at random and you will find a great story 
to entertain you. 

SPECIAL OEF'ER 

In order to place this fine collection of stories in every home, we make 
the following special offer: Send us 50 cents and the four fine volumes will be 
sent to you immediately. Then you pay 50 cents each month until $6.00 ha« 
beeo paid. 


LIBRARY OK 

SHORT STOR I RS 


BY A BRILLIANT ARRAY OF CATHOLIC AUTHORS 
Original Stories by 33 Writers 

Four Handsome Volumes and Benziger’s Magazine for a Year at the 

Special Price of $5.00 

50 CENTS DOWN; 50 CENTS A MONTH 

You get the books at once, and have the use of them while making easy 
payments. Send us only 50 cents, and we will forward the books at once; 
50 cents entitles you to immediate possession. No further payment need be 
made for a month; afterwards you pay 50 cents a month. 


Anna T. Sadlier 
Mary E. Mannix 
Mary T. Waggaman 
Jerome Harte 
Mary G. Bonesteel 
Magdalen Rock 
Eugenie Uhlrich 
Alice Richardson 
Katharine Jenkins 
Mary Boyle O’Reilly 
Clara Mulholland 


STORIES BY 

Grace Keon 
Louisa Emily Dobree 
Theo. Gift 
Margaret E. Jordan 
Agnes M. Rowe 
Julia C. Walsh 
Madge Mannix 
Leigh Gordon Giltner 
Eleanor C. Donnelly 
Teresa Stanton 
H. J. Carroll 


Rev. T. J. Livingstone, S.J. 
Marion Ames Taggart 
Maurice Francis Egan 
Mary F. Nixon-Roulet 
Mrs. Francis Chadwick 
Catherine L. Meagher 
Anna Blanche McGill 
Mary Catherine Crowley 
Katherine Tynan-Hinkson 
Sallie Margaret O’Malley 
Emma Howard Wight 


10 


000 PAGES 


500 ILLUSTRATIONS 


A GREAT OFFER 

THE LIFE OF OUR LORD 

- •— AND r=r=i 

SAVIOUR JESUS CHRIST 

AND OF HIS VIRGIN MOTHER MARY 

FROM THE ORIGINAL OF 

Iv. C. BUSINGKR, IvL.D. 

BY 

Rev. RICHARD BRENNAN, LLD. 


Quarto, half morocco, full gilt side, gilt edges, 900 pages, 
500 illustrations in the text and 32 full-page 
illustrations by 
NI. KEUKRSXKIN 


PRICE, NET $10.00 

Easy Payment Plan 
$1.00 DOWN, $1.00 A MONTH 

Mail $1.00 to-day and the book will be shipped to you 
immediately. Then you pay $1.00 a month 
till $10.00 is paid. 

This is not only a Life of Christ and of His Blessed 
Mother, but also a carefully condensed history of God'^s 
Church from Adam to the end of the world in type, prophecy 
and fulfilment, it contains a popular dogmatic theology and 
a real catechism of perseverance, filled with spiritual food 
for the soul. 


11 


The Best Stories and Articles 


Over tooo Illustrations a Year 


BENZIGER’S MAGAZINE 

The Popular Catholic Family Monthly 
Recommended by yo Archbishops and Bishops of the United States 
SUBSCRIPTION, $2.00 A YEAR 


What Benziger’s Magazine gives its Readers : 

Fifty complete stories by the best writers — equal to a book of 300 
pages selling at $1.25. 

Three complete novels of absorbing interest — equal to three books 
selling at $1.25 each. 

Over 1000 beautiful illustrations. 

Twenty-five large reproductions of celebrated paintings. 

Twenty articles — equal to a book of 150 pages — on travel and ad- 
venture; on the manners, customs and home-life of peoples; 
on the haunts and habits of animal life, etc. 

Twenty articles — equal to a book of 150 pages — on our country: 
historic events, times, places, important industries. 

Twenty articles — equal to a book of 150 pages — on the fine arts: 
celebrated artists and their paintings, sculpture, music, etc., and 
nature studies. 

Twelve pages of games and amusements for in and out of doors. 

Fifty pages of fashions, fads and fancies, gathered at home and 
abroad, helpful hints for home workers, household column, 
cooking receipts, etc. 

“Current Events,” the important happenings over the whole world, 
described with pen and pictures. 

Prize competitions, in which valuable prizes are offered. 

This is what is given in a Single Year of Benziger’s Magazine 

Send $2.00 now and become a subscriber to the best and handsomest 
Catholic Magazine published. 


BENZIGER BROTHERS 

New York: Cincinnati: Chicago: 

36-38 Barclay Street. 343 Main Street. 211-213 Madison Street 


12 












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